


Crazy Composed

by ominousunflower



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Enemies to Friends, Luxy, Luxy Week 2020, M/M, adrienette - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:48:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24356806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ominousunflower/pseuds/ominousunflower
Summary: Luka Couffaine can't stand Xavier-Yves Roth, but he also can't seem to stop spending time with him. Either something is going on between them, or Luka has officially gone crazy—and according to his friends, it's a bit of both.
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir & Luka Couffaine, Luka Couffaine & Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Luka Couffaine/XY (Miraculous Ladybug)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 56
Collections: Luxy Week 2020





	1. Eye Contact

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! I somehow got dragged aboard the Luxy ship, and to be honest, this pairing is super fun to write. This was written for Luxy Week 2020--big thanks to [j_majka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/j_majka/pseuds/j_majka/works?fandom_id=582724) for organizing this whole event!
> 
> I'll be more or less following along with the prompts, with two minor differences: first, in order to make the story flow better, I've swapped the prompts for Day 3 and Day 4. Second, I wasn't able to get all of this written in time, so while the first 3 updates will be more or less on time, it might take me a few weeks to finish the rest.
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy!

“Thanks for staying to help,” Marinette murmurs to Luka, as she picks up a macaron with a pair of tongs and sets it on a businessman's plate. “I know you only came to the hotel to make a delivery.”

“It’s fine,” Luka says. Pouring another glass of punch, he smiles awkwardly at the businessman, then sets the glass alongside a dozen others. “You needed help, so I’m happy to be here.”

Normally, Luka would stay as far away from a catering event as possible. These sorts of things are always crowded and cramped, loud with chattering, and he tends to prefer quieter, emptier spaces. But the moment he’d walked into the hotel and seen Marinette off to the side wearing a half-smile-half-grimace, he’d resolved to stay and make her job easier.

So far, nothing too bad has happened. From what Marinette has told him, it’s some sort of business conference, which would explain why everyone is wearing suits and ties. Luka feels woefully underdressed in his hoodie and sneakers, but Marinette has assured him that no one will notice what he’s wearing underneath the apron.

The calm shatters when a familiar magenta-haired woman rushes up to the table, slipping between two people in line.

“Oh, Marinette,” Penny says. “Thank goodness. I thought I saw you down here earlier.”

“Penny!” Marinette says, eyes wide. “Um, what is it? Does Jagged need something?”

“There was a meeting earlier with some music folks. Somehow, Jagged and XY ended up in the same room, and…” Penny sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Well, Bob Roth is in another meeting, and neither one of them are listening to me. I assume since you’ve dealt with both of them before…?”

Marinette offers Penny a strained smile. “Say no more! I’ll see what I can do.” She glances at Luka. “Do you want to come? I know you’re a fan of Jagged, but…”

 _But you got akumatized the last time you spoke to Xavier-Yves Roth and his father._ That’s probably what Marinette is too nice to say out loud.

Luka clenches his jaw. “I’ll come with you. Maybe the sight of my face will remind XY to watch himself.” Belatedly, he remembers that Penny is still standing there. He clears his throat. “I’m not going to cause any trouble, I promise.”

Penny just smiles. “I’m sure you two can handle them. Oh, and here—give me that apron, Marinette. I’ll take over while you deal with the problem upstairs.”

Marinette slips off the apron and passes it over to Penny. “What floor?”

“Fourth,” Penny says. “Room 412.”

“Got it.”

Marinette takes off at a sprint toward the elevators, leaving Luka to throw his apron on the table and follow her. They stick to the perimeter of the room, avoiding the crowds of people milling around the center.

“You don’t have to help, you know,” Marinette says, as they wait for the elevator. “I know you and XY aren’t on great terms.”

Luka folds his arms across his chest. He’s used to people thinking that he’s calm and collected, so he doesn’t appreciate the implication that he can’t handle a confrontation with someone who has two letters for a name.

Well, technically it’s just a stage name, but _still._ How does no one else see how stupid it is?

“I’m fine,” Luka assures her. “I know I didn’t handle things well last time. But I’ve learned from that mistake—I won’t let the Roths get under my skin.”

The elevator dings, and he and Marinette step inside.

Silence falls between them. Now, of all times, Luka is reminded of the fact that Marinette never really responded to his confession. He hasn’t exactly retracted it, and she hasn’t explicitly rejected it, so where do they stand, exactly?

While he’s sure that he still has a crush on her, anyone with half a brain can see that she and Adrien are a perfect match. (Of course, anyone with half a brain could _also_ see that the two of them are probably Ladybug and Chat Noir, so maybe the people of Paris just aren’t that smart.) Luka has a feeling that any romance he starts with Marinette will ultimately lead to her realizing that Adrien is the one for her, and he’s not too interested in being a relationship catalyst.

But Luka is also someone who says what he means, so he’s not going to take back a confession that’s still technically true. Unfortunately, that has resulted in the current awkward silence, where Luka can _feel_ the anxiety rolling off Marinette in waves. No doubt she’s worried that he’ll try to make a move.

Should he say something? No, because what if she’s _not_ thinking that? Then he’ll just seem weird and anxious.

Luka sighs to himself. He wishes that people were easier to understand. Do they really think that his musical talent makes up for the fact that other human beings are a mystery to him? It’s a good cover, he supposes: being able to play a few bars based on a person’s aura, in a smooth way that makes them think he understands them. _Why, yes, fellow human, I completely understand you! Listen to this G-major chord! I heard it in your heart._

It’s not a lie, though—Luka _does_ understand emotions. He just doesn’t understand the thoughts that come with them.

Fortunately, Luka’s musings fill up the time it takes to get to Room 412, sparing him from any awkward exchanges with Marinette.

“Yeah, Fang!” an accented voice—unmistakably Jagged Stone’s—yells. “You want this cell phone? Been a while since you had some crunchy technology, huh?”

“Give it back!” another voice whines. Luka rolls his eyes. There’s no question that’s Xavier-Yves Roth. 

Marinette glances at Luka, then knocks on the door.

“Why should I give it back?” Jagged snaps. “You were going to post a picture of me with the caption _Ragged Stone._ I’m not a has-been! I’m rock-‘n-roll!”

Luka sighs. “Is he always like this?”

“Pretty much,” Marinette says. Her foot taps rapidly against the carpeted floor, and she knocks again. “Uh, Jagged! It’s Marinette Dupain—”

The door flies open, and Luka’s sort-of-idol Jagged Stone is standing on the other side, signature guitar slung over his shoulder. “Marinette!” he says, his accent butchering the r in her name. He grabs her shoulder and shoots her a finger gun. “Great! I’m so glad you’re here. Deux-letters here is trying to harass me with his Instagram or whatever. Do me a favor and keep an eye on him? I’m all fired up now, so I need to get a drink or something.”

“Um.” Marinette leans around Jagged and peers inside. “You didn’t actually feed XY’s cell phone to Fang, did you?”

“Nah. I’ve got it right here. I only destroy _my_ property, you know? I’m not a vandal.” Jagged pulls the phone from his pocket and drops it into Marinette’s hand. Then his eyes fall on Luka. “Oh, hey! You’re Marinette’s guitar friend. Luka, right? Sorry for arguing with your mom that one time. You’ve got talent. We should work together sometime! Any friend of Marinette’s is a friend of mine.”

He pats Luka on the shoulder, then squeezes between him and Marinette. Grabbing his guitar, he starts playing it as he walks toward the elevator, filling the hallway with the sound of rock ‘n roll.

Luka stares after him, slightly dazed. “Did he just say he wanted to work with me sometime?”

“He did!” Marinette says. “And he’ll keep his promise, too. Jagged is a good guy.” She purses her lips and puffs out a breath. “But we’ve got a bigger problem.”

“Right,” Luka says, sighing. “Babysitting XY?”

“And Fang,” Marinette says. “Jagged left him here, and I doubt he and XY get along.”

Grimacing, Luka looks through the doorway at Jagged’s pet crocodile. Fang is lounging on a sofa, yellow eyes fixed on XY, who’s draped across an armchair on the other side of the coffee table. XY looks every bit as infuriating as Luka remembers; his lazy pose makes Luka’s fists clench involuntarily. 

“Stupid crocodile,” XY says, pouting. He grabs a pillow from behind his back and chucks it at Fang.

Fang growls and catches the pillow in his mouth, his large teeth instantly ripping it to shreds. Soon, all that’s left is a few shreds of fabric and stuffing that have fluttered to the ground.

Luka glares at XY. “Why would you throw something at a _crocodile?”_

XY shrugs. “It’s just a dumb lizard. Hey, are you room service? I want something to eat.”

Luka deeply inhales through his nose, calling on years of meditation to keep himself calm. “No, I…” He trails off as Fang crawls off the couch and starts plodding toward XY. “Uh.”

Marinette presses XY’s phone into Luka’s hand and rushes forward. “Fang!” she says, in the high-pitched way a person might talk to a puppy. “Hey, there! Who’s a good crocodile?”

Bizarrely, Fang stops and almost seems to smile at her. The song “Never Smile at a Crocodile” plays in Luka’s head, and even though he trusts Marinette to handle things, he can’t help but be slightly concerned.

Marinette pats her thighs and beckons Fang toward her, then starts backing toward a door off to the side. “Fang, do you want a bath? Some nice water? I bet that would feel nice. Why don’t we get you in the bath while we wait for Jagged?”

Apparently _bath_ and _Jagged_ are two of the words Fang knows, because he changes course and walks after Marinette to the bathroom.

“That was unbelievably stupid,” Luka tells XY.

“What do you mean?” XY says, waving a hand as he stares at the carpet. He doesn’t even have the decency to make eye contact with Luka when they’re talking. “Your girlfriend’s got it handled. I figured she would.”

“She’s not my—never mind. I’m not talking to you. It will just make me angry.”

Luka folds his arms across his chest and scans the room, waiting for Marinette to finish drawing Fang’s bath. He can hear the sound of running water echoing from the bathroom, though the noise isn’t as soothing as it could be when he knows it’s for a crocodile bath.

“How am I making you angry?” XY asks. “I’m just sitting here.”

 _It’s the WAY you’re sitting,_ Luka almost says, before he realizes how dumb that sounds. Instead, he just shrugs and stares at what little he can see of the bathroom through the open door. All he can make out is Marinette’s shoe and a giant crocodile tail, but it’s better than looking at XY’s face.

“Hey, can I have my phone?” XY asks.

“Why are you asking me?” Luka snaps.

“Because you’re holding it?”

Luka glances down at his hand, where sure enough, he is holding the phone Marinette gave him. The case is covered in some sort of obnoxious bling that makes Luka’s eyes burn. “Oh. Sorry.” Luka crosses over to XY’s chair and holds out the phone. “Here.”

XY grabs it from his hand without looking at him. “Thanks.”

Immediately, XY’s phone starts beeping, and a second later, an alarm tone goes off on Luka’s own cell phone. He digs it out of his pocket and sighs.

“What was that?” Marinette asks, running out of the bathroom with water dripping from her hands.

“Akuma alert,” Luka says flatly.

If his suspicions are correct, he knows exactly how this is about to go.

Marinette squeaks. “I, um—have to—macarons! Penny has no idea how to hold the macarons, and I…need to…go teach her.” She sprints across the room and pauses in the doorway, shifting from one foot to the other. “I’m really sorry, Luka. I hate to leave you two—”

“Go ahead,” Luka says, trying not to sound too resigned. “I know the…uh, _macarons_ are important.”

With a nod, Marinette runs into the hallway and pulls the door shut behind her.

Luka wanders across the room to glance out the ornate hotel window. From this spot on the fourth floor, he can see part of the Place des Vosgues, along with some familiar houses and stores.

As he looks outside, though, he can feel eyes on him. It’s hard to describe—similar to when he senses a person’s mood—but someone is definitely staring at him.

Praying that it is not a hungry crocodile, he slowly turns around.

XY’s blue eyes are fixed on him, staring out from beneath his ridiculous blond hair. His brow is creased ever so slightly, almost with an expression of trepidation. But, well, why would XY be afraid of Luka? Luka’s the one whose career could be ended in an instant by XY’s capricious father. Luka doesn’t have the power to do anything to XY.

Luka stares back, hoping that XY gets the message. _Don’t mess with me or my friends._

XY nods slowly and goes back to fiddling with his phone.

Luka’s fingers itch for his guitar, but of course, he didn’t bring it with him, since he thought this would be a quick delivery stop. Mirroring XY, he pulls out his own phone and pulls up his contacts. Surely there’s _someone_ he can text to pass the time…

Adrien Agreste’s name stares back at him from the top of the list. Luka considers it—Adrien is pretty fun to talk to, and would definitely sympathize with Luka’s current plight—but then he realizes that if Adrien is Chat Noir, he’s probably busy fighting the akuma right now.

XY clears his throat. “Uh, you play bass?”

Luka scrolls further through his contacts, because surely XY isn’t talking to _him._ But when he glances up, XY’s eyes are fixed on him again.

“Me?” Luka says. “I play guitar.”

“Right,” XY says. “That’s the one with six strings.”

Luka barely resists rolling his eyes. “Yeah.”

XY doesn’t respond, so Luka goes back to his phone. He pulls up the Ladyblog and skims it for updates: apparently the akuma is some sort of food-themed monster stomping throughout the city, and Ladybug has yet to summon her Lucky Charm. Based on past data, Alya has projected the battle to last twenty minutes, and advises civilians to stay inside to avoid being trampled.

Really, though, wouldn’t it be better outside? XY isn’t outside. Luka will gladly risk getting crushed by an angry hamburger man if it means escaping this awkwardness.

“And you, uh,” XY says. “You’re in that cat band?”

Luka sighs, keeping his eyes on his phone. “Kitty Section, yeah.”

He braces himself for some taunt about the name—which Luka will fiercely defend, because cats are excellent, thank you very much—but instead XY just says, “Oh, that rings a bell.”

“It should,” Luka says, gritting his teeth, “since we’re the band you and your father stole from.”

 _“Stole_ is kind of harsh,” XY says. “I prefer _inspired by.”_

Luka glares at him. “Is that a joke?”

XY shrugs.

“Have you ever had an original musical thought?” Luka asks, before he can stop himself.

To his frustration, XY gives another shrug. “Eh. Everything’s unoriginal, you know?”

Technically, that’s true, and Luka would agree if the phrase was coming from an actual artist. But it’s coming from _XY._ Scowling, Luka says, “There’s a difference between _unoriginal_ and _plagiarized,_ you know.”

In Luka’s head and in front of his bathroom mirror, he’s played out this scenario dozens of times, and in those imaginary conversations, he has said much more insulting things to XY. Of course, Luka would never _actually_ say any of those cruel things…but XY is testing his patience.

When he thinks about it, though, XY hasn’t done anything wildly offensive today, except make very unwanted small talk. And that’s infuriating in its own way. Luka wishes he would do _something_ bad, so that his irritation felt more justified.

“Yeah, sorry,” XY says. “I didn’t realize that was illegal.”

“It’s not the _illegal_ part that bothers me,” Luka says. He wonders if he should even bother trying to explain what’s actually wrong. “It’s that my friends and I worked hard on that song, and Marinette worked hard on those costumes, and your father threatened us and undermined our work. But it makes sense that legality is all you two are concerned about. After all, you can’t make as much money if your father is in jail.”

He bites down on his tongue the moment the words are out. Does XY just bring out the worst in Luka? Or does Luka have less self-control than he thought?

“I mean, yeah, we wouldn’t want to get sued,” XY says. He’s now tossing a TV remote up and down, catching it with one hand. He won’t meet Luka’s eyes, which might be for the better; if he did, he’d see Luka’s brief moment of guilt over snapping at him. “Besides, coming up with stuff is hard.”

“So you understand why we were upset,” Luka says slowly.

What, exactly, did he do to deserve this conversation? Is it the fact that he’s flirted with both Marinette and Adrien? Is the universe somehow blaming him for keeping those two apart? Because, if so, that’s wildly unfair. Marinette and Adrien could be the last two people on earth, and they’d still find a way to be oblivious about their feelings for each other.

“You could have been flattered,” XY says. “We thought your stuff was good enough to steal—um, borrow. Or…yeah.”

“Do you even hear yourself?” Luka asks in disbelief.

Maybe XY is wearing noise-cancelling earbuds that Luka can’t see. Maybe that’s how he manages to be so utterly tone-deaf.

“Yeah,” XY says. “Why? Am I talking too loud?”

Luka sighs. “You’re surrounded by music. You perform all the time. You must be able to come up with something on your own.”

Distantly, he thinks maybe he should give up on this conversation. He’s wasting his energy on XY. There are some people who just don’t _get it,_ and this wouldn’t be the first time Luka has exhausted himself for a lost cause. (For instance: trying to convince his mother that _maybe_ some laws are worth following for the public good, and that it _might_ be a bad idea to install actual cannons on the Liberty.)

“Maybe,” XY says with another shrug. Luka thinks his shoulders must be pretty toned from all the shrugging he does. “But why bother, you know? The computers write lyrics and tunes that people like. Guaranteed success. Seems stupid to write my own stuff.”

If success was all that mattered when it came to music, maybe—and for XY and his father, that’s probably the case.

Luka’s curiosity gets the best of him, and he asks, “Have you ever tried to write your own songs?”

“Yeah, once.”

Luka frowns. Is this the set-up for a joke? Is there a punchline? XY doesn’t seem clever enough to set up a joke, given that _Ragged Stone_ was the best insult he could come up with.

XY stops tossing the remote and holds it in his hand, fiddling with the buttons. “When I was eleven, I wrote a few songs and showed them to my dad.” Luka almost asks, _Then why didn’t you keep doing that?_ but XY answers him in the next breath. “He said they were garbage. And I mean, he’d know, right? He’s, like, a music genius.”

Luka has doubts about how much of a _music genius_ Bob Roth is, but he supposes it makes sense that eleven year-old XY would think that. Even now, XY probably conflates success and money with ingenuity.

But Luka’s mind is hung up on one word, blaring in his ears on repeat: _GARBAGE._

Luka doesn’t want to have sympathy for XY. Sometimes, people are just rude and nasty, and they don’t deserve Luka’s pity. Unbidden, though, his brain is conjuring up a scene: a little blond kid with less-ridiculous hair, wide-eyed and hopeful, showing his father his songs—only to be told that they’re horrible.

Maybe that’s not how it went down. Maybe XY didn’t care about the rejection. But Luka has a feeling that, deep under XY’s blaisé exterior, he still remembers the pain of being told that his creations were worthless.

 _Damn it._ Now Luka has sympathy for XY.

“That’s ridiculous,” Luka says. He tells himself that he’s just angry on behalf of a fellow musician—because technically, XY _is_ a fellow musician. “I can only imagine if my mom told me that my songs were garbage when I was eleven. I mean, they probably weren’t that good, but—”

“Your songs?” XY interrupts. Luka’s sympathy ebbs, replaced by the irritation he feels every time XY opens his mouth. Luka shouldn’t have mentioned his own music; now XY is going to criticize it, and of course his opinion doesn’t mean anything, but Luka will still be annoyed. “Nah, I don’t believe that. Your music’s good.”

It’s certainly not the most glowing compliment Luka has ever received, and it’s delivered with a shrug—and yet, Luka finds his cheeks warming slightly at the comment. Maybe because he never expected XY to actually compliment someone besides himself.

“Have you…heard my music?” Luka asks.

“Just the one song you played on that broadcast. The one we tried to…” XY trails off, and Luka stares at the side of his head, silently demanding him to finish the sentence. “You know.” Frowning, XY tosses the TV remote onto the sofa where Fang was previously sitting. “At least my dad thought your music was good enough to use.”

Luka winces. “I’m sorry.”

The moment the words leave his mouth, he can’t believe he said them. Did he just tell XY that he feels _sorry_ for him?

“Don’t be sorry that you’re good,” XY says. “He knows talent when he sees it, right?”

“But that’s—that’s stupid,” Luka says, taking a step toward the couch. XY doesn’t look up at him. “Your father should have encouraged your music, or helped you to make it better. He shouldn’t have just—” He growls. “I’m not a big fan of him, so of course I’m not surprised, but that’s still unfair.”

XY tilts his head toward Luka, though he still doesn’t quite make eye contact. “So you’re a fan of _me,_ then?”

“No,” Luka says flatly.

XY nods, seeming unbothered. “Anyway, that’s cool. No one’s ever gotten mad for me. Well, my dad yells at people to make them do things for me, I guess. Does that count?”

Luka resists the urge to facepalm. The way XY says such _spoiled_ things so casually—is this how Adrien feels, dealing with Chloé all the time? Then again, Adrien and Chloé are friends, and Luka and XY certainly aren’t.

Although, if Adrien can be friends with Chloé, does that mean Luka could befriend someone like…?

No. Luka refuses to consider it. He’s not getting involved with someone this rude and high-maintenance. People might think Luka has the patience of a saint, but in fact, he does not. And why would he take XY under his wing, after he and his father tried to screw over Kitty Section? XY’s personal issues aren’t Luka’s problem, and it’s certainly not _his_ responsibility to nurture XY’s creative side.

 _Xavier-Yves Roth is young,_ Luka’s conscience says. _Of course he makes mistakes. His brain isn’t fully developed yet._

 _Neither is mine,_ Luka thinks back. _Which is probably why I’m even considering something this stupid._

“You know,” Luka says slowly. “If you…did write another song, and wanted to run it by someone…”

XY is silent for a moment, and then he finally looks up at Luka with a quizzical expression. “You? You’ve never sold albums or topped a chart. You wouldn’t have any useful feedback.”

Ah. Yes. _This_ is why Luka wasn’t going to get involved with XY. Luka sympathized with XY for having his father tell him his offerings were worthless—and then XY turned around and said the same insensitive thing to Luka.

So what if Luka hasn’t topped the charts with an album full of banal, soulless songs? At least he makes music he’s passionate about.

It occurs to Luka that XY isn’t looking at him with scorn in his eyes. He just looks confused, which means he doesn’t even realize that what he just said was insulting.

Since Luka is feeling charitable—and XY’s words are meaningless—he decides to shrug off the comment. “I’m not interested in songs that sell,” Luka says. “I was just offering a second set of ears.”

“Oh.” XY blinks. “I don’t really see what’s in it for me…but, yeah, I guess it could be good practice for you. You know, learning how to work with someone in the industry.”

 _This is not worth it,_ Luka thinks. _You will gain nothing from helping him._

 _Be a charitable person,_ his conscience insists. _Do something good without expecting anything in return._

Luka snorts to himself. He’s already helped Ladybug and Chat Noir save Paris several times as Viperion. Isn’t that enough charity for the year?

“What’s so funny?” XY asks.

“Nothing,” Luka says. “I was thinking of something else. I’ll…keep your offer in mind.”

“Sure,” XY says, going back to his phone. “I’m not usually this generous, so, you know—it’s a special offer. I bet a lot of people would be jealous.”

Luka sighs. XY might not know much about music, but he’s certainly talented at infuriating people.

Before Luka manages to think of a response that doesn’t involve scathing sarcasm, there’s a loud knock on the door.

“Luka? XY? It’s Marinette!”

Luka rushes over to the door, checking his phone as he does. According to the Ladyblog, the akuma was defeated about a minute ago.

He opens the door and Marinette runs inside, panting. “Sorry, the, uh—the…”

“Macarons,” Luka supplies.

“Right! Yes,” Marinette says. “But then I got distracted, and, uh—there was an akuma, did you hear? Crazy! I mean, not crazy, because Paris has had a lot of akumas, but, you know…”

“I’m glad you’re back,” Luka says.

Marinette nods, then leans forward and whispers, “How was XY?”

Luka shrugs. “About what you’d expect.”

That feels a bit disingenuous, though. Because XY _isn’t_ quite what Luka expected. Yes, his attitude is infuriating, and he oozes upper-class shallowness—but Luka’s starting to realize that there might be a reason that XY acts the way he does.

Not that Luka intends to stick around long enough to find out.

XY groans and stands. “I guess that lame rock star isn’t coming back for his dumb lizard. You two can watch him. I’m going downstairs to get food or something.”

He crosses the room and brushes past Luka and Marinette without a word. His eyes meet Luka’s as he leaves—and there it is, again, that look of almost _wariness._

Then he shrugs and leaves, and Luka and Marinette are alone with a crocodile in a bathtub.

“Thanks for not feeding him to the crocodile,” Marinette says. 

“Yeah, well.” Luka shrugs. “I didn’t want to give my favorite rock star’s pet indigestion.” 

A second later, they hear a grunt and a crack, followed by a tidal-wave splash; and for the moment, at least, Luka’s thoughts of Xavier-Yves Roth are forgotten.


	2. Heroics

“Hey, Marinette!” Jagged Stone calls, waving from the table he’s sitting at. Reaching over the guitar on his lap, he hands an autographed CD to a fan. “And you brought friends! Totally cool.”

Luka and Adrien trail behind Marinette as she jogs over to greet Jagged. To Luka’s dismay, XY is seated a few tables down. He doesn’t look up as Luka and the others walk in—but why would he? Luka feels foolish for even thinking that he would notice them.

“He’s a little overwhelming,” Adrien comments from beside him.

“Jagged Stone?” Luka says, tearing his eyes away from XY. It’s a small loss, when he now gets to look at Adrien’s tousled blond locks and toned arms. “Yeah. I think his crocodile almost ate XY the last time I was here.”

Adrien snorts. “Looks like he’s here, too.” One hand on his hip, he grips his chin as if he’s deep in thought. “I wonder if XY stole his signature from someone else.”

Luka smiles, barely holding back a laugh. “Be nice.”

Adrien raises his eyebrows. “Be nice to the guy who tried to plagiarize you and Kitty Section? And got you akumatized? Sorry, but as a fellow musician, I don’t have sympathy for plagiarizers.” His eyes narrow. “And I definitely don’t have sympathy for people who hurt my friends.”

Is Luka crazy, having sympathy for XY? His mother once warned him that he’d end up being a doormat if he always gave people the benefit of the doubt, but Luka always figured that was just part of being a good person.

“Hey.” Adrien’s fingers brush Luka’s arm. “Did I say something wrong?”

“I guess I kind of _do_ have sympathy for him,” Luka says. Again, he glances at XY, who’s lazily scrawling his signature and handing off CDs without even making eye contact with his fans. Luka supposes that’s better than stamping the merchandise, at any rate. “His father is Bob Roth, and he’s been raised to be rich and spoiled. How much of that is really his fault?”

Adrien sighs. “Yeah, I thought about that, too. And I usually do give people the benefit of the doubt, but—it’s different when they hurt my friends.”

“I appreciate that, Adrien,” Luka says. “Really.” He shakes his head, as if he can somehow shake off his conscience as well. “I don’t want to be friends with him, obviously. I just feel a little bad for him.”

“That’s fair,” Adrien says. “And who knows? Maybe he’s not that bad. I grew up with Chloé as my only friend for a while, and…well, she’s got her issues, but she’s also got a good heart. Or—part of her heart is good, anyway. It’s just rarely in the right place.” He shrugs. “No one is one hundred-percent terrible.”

Luka wonders if Adrien is right, or if he’s just being too kind for his own good. “Not even Papillon?”

A shadow passes over Adrien’s face, as if the lights overhead have just flickered. “Not even him. Although…you’d have to be pretty sadistic to make a pigeon akuma dozens of times, when Chat Noir is allergic to feathers.”

“You sound personally offended,” Luka notes.

“Of course I am!” Adrien says. “I have a feather allergy, too, you know. I’m very sympathetic to Chat Noir’s plight.”

“I’m sure,” Luka says. After all, he’s almost certain that Adrien is Chat Noir—not that he would ever ask. Does he really need to? That wink from the Desperada fight said it all, really.

They finally approach the table, and Jagged shoots them finger guns when he sees them. “Hey! Luka and Adrien, right? Nice to see Marinette’s got cool friends.” He signs another CD and hands it off, then leans back in his chair, tipping it back so far that Luka’s worried he’ll tumble over. “Penny! When do I get a break?”

“Ten minutes,” Penny says.

Jagged groans. “This totally isn’t my style. I need to be moving and _rocking._ Why can’t I sign CDs with the sound of my guitar?”

“He’s so extra,” Adrien mutters under his breath.

“Rock ‘n roll, baby,” Luka murmurs.

They both laugh at that, and for the next few minutes, Luka and his friends chat quietly as they wait for Jagged to go on break.

Luka notices that Marinette isn’t stuttering around Adrien anymore, which is progress. He also notices that, as they talk, Adrien finds tiny ways to touch her—a hand on her shoulder, his arm brushing against hers, little things like that. At one point, he even reaches up and brushes his fingers against her hair.

“Sorry,” Adrien says, cheeks pink. “There was some fuzz or something.”

“Oh.” Marinette giggles. “Thanks! My hero.”

Luka wonders how on earth they haven’t gotten together yet.

At last, Jagged is allowed to take a break, and he immediately jumps to his feet and stretches his arms above his head. “Finally! Time to get the blood pumping with some—”

“I don’t want to sign any more CDs,” a loud voice says from several meters away. Luka knows that it’s XY before he even looks over. “My hand is cramping, and it’s totally boring. They saw my face, didn’t they? Why do they need my signature?”

Luka grimaces. “He makes it so hard to have sympathy for him.”

“Yeah,” Adrien says.

“He’s infuriating,” Marinette says. “Doesn’t he care about his fans? He owes his success to them! He wouldn’t be topping charts if they didn’t buy his CDs or listen to his songs.”

“Nah, it’s not personal,” Jagged says. “XY doesn’t care about _anything,_ man. It’s not just his fans.”

“What about his music?” Luka asks.

“That soulless tripe?” Jagged asks. “Why would anyone care about that? I’d be totally embarrassed if I ever had a record that sounded like his.”

“Luka’s right,” Adrien says. “There’s no need to be mean. Just because _we_ don’t like the album, that doesn’t mean that no one does.”

“I’m not being mean, man.” Jagged plays a few riffs on his guitar, his fingers moving effortlessly across the strings. He might be a bit of a character, but there’s no denying his talent. “I’m just speaking the truth.”

“Maybe someone should go talk to him?” Luka says.

Marinette looks at him like he’s gone crazy. “Talk to XY?”

Adrien doesn’t say anything, though Luka’s sure he’s silently questioning his sanity.

“I’d get lonely, too, if I was stuck by myself at a table for hours,” Luka says. “And Bob Roth isn’t the best company.”

“That’s true,” Adrien says, although he doesn’t quite sound convinced. Luka still appreciates the backup. “Jagged Stone has us and Penny, but XY has been stuck alone with his father hovering over his shoulder for hours.” It’s almost imperceptible, but his shoulders hunch slightly. “I know that feeling.”

Marinette winces. “If you really want us to go over there…”

“I’ll go with you,” Adrien tells Luka. “I haven’t really met XY, so, um…it could be fun.”

Luka leans close and whispers, “You don’t have to lie.”

Adrien sighs. “I think you’re right, though. At the very least, we can talk XY out of a tantrum before he causes a scene.”

“Ha!” Jagged says. “Talk that whiny kid out of a tantrum? Good luck.”

“I’ll come, too,” Marinette says. “I have experience babysitting whiny kids.”

That decided, the three of them tentatively approach XY’s table, with the same caution one might exercise when approaching a wild animal. For some reason, Adrien and Marinette insist on walking behind Luka, as if to say, _You do the talking._

Yes, of course. Let the guy who speaks with his guitar do the talking. That will go well.

XY abruptly stands, bumping the table and knocking a stack of CDs over. “I’m out of here,” he says. “This event is lame, and I want food.” He starts to storm toward the elevators, but stops when he realizes that Luka and the others are walking toward him. “Oh, now what did I do? Is Ragged Stone’s crocodile mad at me again?”

“Uh,” Luka says. “His crocodile isn’t here, so…”

“It looks like your father might be mad, though,” Adrien adds, standing slightly behind Luka to his right. He’s…kind of coming this way.”

XY groans. “He can sign CDs, if he wants them autographed so badly!”

“XY,” Bob Roth says, stomping over to them. He grabs XY’s arm and tugs, pulling him slightly off-balance. “What do you think you’re doing? We have another half hour until your break. And think of how this looks! Don’t make me deal with media fallout! If you look like you have _too_ many problems, sales will plummet.”

Adrien hisses in a breath, almost like he’s been burned. Luka finds himself wincing as well. Of course XY seems like a handful, but—well, Bob Roth’s priorities seem skewed.

“Quit staring at me,” XY snaps at Luka. “If you want an autograph so badly, get in line. I don’t hand out freebies.”

Luka bristles at XY’s tone. Has he completely forgotten their conversation last time, when he opened up to Luka about his father? Luka had thought that _maybe_ they’d be on slightly-more-civil terms now.

Then he realizes: XY hasn’t forgotten. He remembers exactly what he told Luka—exactly what Luka _knows_ —which is probably why he’s so desperate for Luka not to see this.

“I’m not staring,” Luka says calmly. “We were actually coming over to keep you company, since CD-signing seems kind of boring.”

“See!” XY says, turning to Bob Roth. Scowling, he shakes his arm off. “This guy doesn’t know anything about the music industry, and even _he_ knows that CD-signing is boring!”

“He knows plenty about music!” Marinette snaps. “Unlike you and your—”

“Marinette,” Luka says, touching her shoulder. “Not now. Technically, he’s right. I’ve never done any promotional events or CD-signings.”

Marinette growls and folds her arms. “You don’t have to be nice, Luka. These people don’t _like_ you. They just want to profit off you.”

“I profit enough on my own, thanks,” XY says. “I don’t need to borrow any more ideas.”

Luka thinks that might be XY’s roundabout way of promising not to plagiarize him again—but maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

“Borrow,” Marinette mutters. “More like _steal.”_

“Anyway,” XY says, “company or not, I don’t want to do any more autographs. I’m going to take a nap or chill or something.”

Rolling his eyes, he turns toward the elevators, but freezes when a voice yells, “Don’t move, you thieving bastard!”

XY whirls around, which is kind of sad, because it means that he answers to the term _thieving bastard._

Planting his feet in place, Luka turns to face the speaker. It’s a man, probably somewhere between thirty and forty, and a few parts of his appearance stand out to Luka.

First is the rage on his face, twisting his features, reddening his skin. Second is his clothing: a blue and white polo shirt, with words stitched on the chest that Luka can't make out, and two dusty lace-up shoes.

Third is the bowling ball clutched in his hand.

Luka quickly puts together a mental picture of the situation. An angry man storming toward XY, yelling the phrase _thieving bastard…_ this is probably another musician that XY and his father have plagiarized. (Though really, Luka holds Bob Roth slightly more accountable for the plagiarism, since XY was probably too lazy to be involved.)

“I’m sitting in the bowling alley,” the man says, stopping a few meters away, “when someone says XY released a sneak peek of his next song. And then they play the video, and I hear _my_ song.” He growls. “I sent that song in hoping to work for the label, and you stole it.”

He lifts the bowling ball and winds back his arm. Before he can move, Luka launches himself at XY, cradling his head as they crash to the ground.

XY grunts as they land. Luka immediately crawls off him and jumps to his feet, spinning to face the angry bowling player.

“Monsieur Roth!” Marinette says. “You and XY need to go!”

Security is already gathering around the man, but that doesn’t seem to deter him. To Adrien’s credit, he’s wielding a sign-post like a sword, and while Marinette might be unarmed, she looks like she could take the guy down with one punch if she tried.

Then a tell-tale black butterfly flits down from above and dissolves into the bowling ball, and Adrien and Marinette simultaneously voice Luka’s thoughts: “Are you kidding me?”

“Aw, not one of those!” XY groans. “Tell it to buzz off.”

“I don’t think that’s going to work,” Luka says.

Marinette glances frantically from side to side. “I need to, um—go feed my hamster!” She skirts the ring of security guards and sprints toward the exit of the hotel, then runs out the door, nearly tripping over a pigeon as she runs.

“She doesn’t even have a hamster,” Luka mutters.

“Then whose hamster is she going to feed?” XY asks.

“Pigeons!” Adrien calls, dashing after her. At least he has the decency not to lie.

“Are your friends off their rockers?” XY asks.

 _No, they’re just superheroes,_ Luka thinks.

Sighing, he grabs XY by the wrist and tugs him toward the exit. He’d rather they not get trapped in the hotel with a raging akuma; it will be easier to flee if they go outside, and since Ladybug and Chat Noir will be back in a few seconds, they’ll be able to contain the akuma before it leaves the hotel to follow XY.

“I didn’t say you could hold my hand,” XY says.

“I’m not holding your hand,” Luka says, teeth gritted. “I’m holding onto you so that you don’t run off and do something stupid.”

“Hey! I’ve got a sense of self-preservation!”

“Do you?” Luka says. “Is that why you and your father piss off so many people, despite knowing that a supervillain can and _will_ make them into akumas that come after you?”

“My father calls the shots, not me,” XY says. “Blame him!”

“You’re still complicit,” Luka grumbles.

They race down the street and into an alley, and Luka finally lets go of XY.

XY frowns, pointedly rubbing his wrist (which is, incidentally, not the wrist Luka was holding). “I know how to run from an akuma, thanks.”

“Really?” Luka says. “Because you’ve gotten caught by both akumas that have gone after you. But if you want another dragon to grab you in its mouth and fly you up to the Eiffel Tower, by all means, go back out there.”

“I don’t think this guy is going to have a dragon,” XY says, folding his arms. “He’ll be bowling-themed.”

He’s technically correct, but Luka refuses to concede that point. Why must XY be so hard to help? Why can’t he be gracious about _anything?_ It can’t all be chalked up to his father—some of that obnoxiousness is entirely XY’s own doing.

“If you tried to be more considerate,” Luka says, “maybe so many akumas wouldn’t come after you. Isn’t that enough reason to stop infuriating people?”

“It’s not _my_ fault if people can’t control their emotions,” XY says.

“Do I seem like the sort of person who usually loses control of my emotions?” Luka asks. “It takes a lot to push me over the edge.”

He could just spell it out for XY, but then XY won’t get it. Luka needs XY to actually _answer_ these questions and realize that his behavior is hurting people.

“What, are you still bothered by that?” XY asks.

“By—by getting akumatized?” Luka asks.

He doesn’t even know how to _begin_ responding to that. Not that XY is legitimately curious, of course; it was clearly a rude and rhetorical question. But how would Luka describe the mental torture of losing complete control of his body and mind, to the point that he didn’t remember anything afterwards?

He had no idea what he said or did. He had to piece it together from blog posts, all the while aware that the helmeted stranger he was reading about was _himself._

How can he explain the disconnect, the feeling of not knowing himself? That’s what makes Luka the angriest. That’s the part he can’t let go of. There’s no denying that he got himself akumatized, and that he should have controlled his emotions. And that’s exactly what the sight of XY and his father reminds Luka of: the fact that he lost his mind over two people who weren’t worth it.

XY shrugs. “Yeah, like, did it hurt?”

Luka clenches his jaw, struggling to remain calm. Would it be painful if he punched the alley wall? Probably, but it would also be extremely cathartic. “I don’t know,” he says, “because I don’t remember. My mind is a complete blank. But if you’re asking if I experienced mental anguish for weeks afterward, then yes.”

“Oh.” XY glances away. “No wonder you’re not one of my fans.”

Suddenly, like a storm being blown away, Luka feels the tension leave his body. Because until now, he never got to tell XY why he gets so mad around him. It’s not his music—because although Luka intensely dislikes the one-and-a-half tracks he’s heard, that’s not enough reason to be angry with someone. It’s not even his attitude—because really, Luka knows XY’s insults aren’t personal, even if XY’s tone drives him up the wall.

It’s the reminder that Luka’s still ashamed of himself, even after all this time. How ironic, that he wields the Snake Miraculous, and can turn back time as much as he wants during akuma battles—and yet, he can’t go back and redo the one moment he’s desperate to change.

“Hey, uh, you’re not going to cry, are you?” XY says. “Because I don’t handle people crying. I usually have other people do it for me.”

“It’s not your fault I got akumatized,” Luka says. “I shouldn’t blame you.”

XY’s brow furrows. “It isn’t? But, we…stole from you? And you got mad?”

“And I let my anger get the best of me,” Luka says. “Which was my fault, not yours.”

“I mean, blame me if you want,” XY says. “Like, I don’t care what you think. Why would it bother me?”

Luka doesn’t believe that. He might not be great at conversation, or standing up for himself—but he’s good at emotions. And he can tell from XY’s closed-off stance and the way his eyes keep drifting away from Luka that he’s _very_ worried about what Luka thinks.

“Right,” Luka says, “but…no. I’m going to take responsibility for my actions.”

XY stares at him flatly. “Why does it feel like you’re saying something without saying it?”

Luka shrugs. “You don’t have to follow my example. I don’t care what you do.”

“You don’t care?” XY says. “I don’t know, you seem kind of into me.”

“What?” Luka balks. “Xavier-Yves—”

“My pals call me XY.”

 _“Xavier-Yves,”_ Luka repeats pointedly. “Has no one ever been concerned about you? Because that’s what this is.”

“Right, that’s what I said. You like me.”

“No,” Luka says. “I’m concerned. It’s different.”

“Don’t you have to like someone to be concerned?”

“I—no, actually,” Luka says. “It’s called empathy.”

“Is that the thing where you act all nice to other people even though they don’t deserve it?”

“Yes. Exactly that.” Luka glares at XY, hoping he’ll get the point.

XY sniffs. “You’re doing it again. The thing where you say things without saying them.”

In the distance, a crash echoes through the air, and birds squawk as they flee through the sky.

Luka winces. “Sounds like they’re still handling the akuma.”

“Oh, right,” XY says. “I was going to say—that’s totally not my fault. I had no idea that guy applied to the label. My father handles that stuff, not me. If we copied his stuff, I didn’t know.” He fiddles with the chain of the huge necklace hanging around his neck. “You know, one of the songs I recorded recently _was_ less boring than usual. I guess it makes sense if that’s one we copied.”

Luka takes a moment to process that. “You think your music is boring?”

“Yeah, I mean, I don’t really care, you know? Like I said before, whatever sells.”

“Music isn’t supposed to be boring,” Luka says firmly. All the times he’s poured his heart into a song, or felt alive while performing—he can’t imagine just going through the motions for money.

XY shrugs. “Whatever. At least I’m famous.”

Like his father, XY’s priorities are undoubtedly skewed. But Luka senses an opening—a chance to _maybe_ get through to this guy, before he hits adulthood and keeps these awful habits.

“My offer still stands,” Luka says. “If you want me to work on a song with you—”

“Oh, right,” XY says, and Luka seethes at being interrupted once again. “You still want me to help you with a song, right? Like a collab?”

Help _Luka_ with a song? Is XY out of his mind? No, it must be an ego thing. It has to be. XY refuses to admit that a nobody-guitarist knows more about music composition than he does.

Luka has no reason to help XY. Then again, the city would be a better place if XY was less of an asshole (and stopped stealing music). Local musicians could be happier and more productive without having to worry about plagiarism from the Roths. There would definitely be fewer akumas. And if Luka does ever end up working in the music industry—which really, he’d rather not, but who doesn’t sometimes dream of making it big?—he might as well get some practice dealing with whiny difficult people.

And everyone needs _someone_ to tell them that their stuff is good, to encourage them. Usually parents would do that, but XY’s father doesn’t sound like the supportive type.

“Sure,” Luka says, still a little miffed about the idea of _XY_ helping _him_ with a song. “Give me your phone and I’ll give you my address.”

“Can’t you just give me your number?”

And give XY free reign to text him whenever he wants? Luka would rather relive every incident involving his mother and Roger Raincomprix than do that. “No,” Luka says. “That’s personal.”

“Don’t you have a work phone or something?”

“I’m sixteen. Why would I have a work phone?”

“You don’t have a job?” XY asks, sounding surprised.

“I do, but—why would you assume that?”

“It’s just, you’re…” XY frowns deeply, as if he’s trying to mentally complete some sort of advanced math problem. “Responsible?”

 _Poor._ No doubt XY has assumed that anyone who’s not rich and famous must be destitute. “Yeah, and music equipment is expensive,” Luka says, deciding not to bother with _that_ conversation. He beckons for XY’s phone. “Here, I’ll give you my address.”

XY hesitates, then tentatively holds out his phone for Luka.

Luka plucks it from his hand, and XY yelps. “Don’t drop it! It’s expensive!”

“I’ve held your phone before,” Luka reminds him. He frowns at the bling sparkling on the phone case. “Is all of this real?”

“Yeah, and don’t even think about taking any of it.”

Luka glares up at him. “You’re telling _me_ not to steal something from _you?”_

“Right, I guess you wouldn’t be able to anything with diamonds.” XY shrugs. “Really, you can just give me your phone number—”

“No,” Luka repeats. “This is a one-time thing. You don’t need my number.” He frowns as he types in his address on XY’s notes app. “Besides, I live on a houseboat. You can’t really miss it.”

“You live on a _boat?”_ XY asks. Luka has no doubt that he is thinking, _Wow, this guy is so poor that he can’t even afford a house._

“Yeah,” Luka says, handing XY’s phone back to him. He can’t stop a defensive edge from creeping into his voice when he adds, “What about it?”

“Where do you go to the bathroom?”

“We have a toilet,” Luka hisses.

“Wild.”

And Luka almost— _almost—_ abandons him in the alleyway for that. 


	3. Collaboration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Welcome to the third installment. Just a quick reminder: I swapped the prompts for Days 3 and 4, so this is technically the Day 4 prompt. Day 3 (Style Swap) will be in the next chapter.

“Hey, let’s take a quick break,” Luka says, silencing his guitar with a hand against the strings. “Rose, you were sounding a little hoarse on those last few notes. Maybe no more singing for today? You should go get some water or something.”

Rose nods, wincing. “I may have overdone it.”

Along with Juleka, she wanders over to the kitchen, and Luka sets his guitar aside, flexing his hands.

“Make sure _you_ don’t over do it, either,” Adrien says, standing behind the keyboard. “Are your hands okay?”

“Yeah, they’re fine,” Luka says. “I’ve been playing a bit too much, maybe. Lately there are a lot of songs stuck in my head.”

It’s true. For the past week, Luka has been haunted by his last encounter with XY—the one that made Luka realize that he never _actually_ took time to work through his feelings after being akumatized. Ever since he started thinking about it, the music has been crashing down on him like an avalanche, burying him in so many melodies and chords that there’s rarely a minute he’s not humming or playing.

“Are you alright?” Adrien asks. “It seems like something is bothering you.”

Luka sighs. “Getting akumatized,” he says. “Which—well, you’re a better person than I am, so you haven’t experienced that.”

“Luka!” Adrien says, eyes wide. “No, I’m not better than you. I just…haven’t gotten that angry, yet. It could still happen.”

“I don’t recommend it.” Luka shrugs, twisting one of his bracelets around his wrist. “It was an unpleasant experience. I think.”

“You wish you could go back,” Adrien notes. “Hey, it’s fine. No one holds that against you, Luka. And from what I heard, you were one of the nicer akumas. You didn’t go after Marinette, and if I had been there, I’m sure you would have left me alone, too.”

“I don’t know,” Luka says. “You have a pretty nice voice. I might have tried to steal it.”

Adrien pouts. “I like to think you wouldn’t have.” He clears his throat, tapping his fingers against the piano keys. “So, speaking of you and Marinette…”

“Our friendship is great,” Luka says, a smile tugging at his lips. “Now, speaking of _you_ and Marinette—”

“Huh?” Adrien says. “I didn’t mention me and—”

“When are you going to ask her out?”

“What?” Adrien squawks, face flushing red. “I…I thought she liked you? Or someone else?”

Luka sighs. How can Adrien be a straight-A student and come to such a bafflingly wrong conclusion? Then again, good grades don’t require common sense. “She doesn’t like me that way, Adrien.”

“But…” Adrien frowns. “She blushes around you.”

Luka raises his eyebrows. “Only half as much as she blushes around you. If anything, I guess she _could_ find me attractive—”

“Could?” Adrien echoes. “I don’t think there’s any question about that. You’re definitely hot.”

“—but I’m fairly sure she’s into you.” Luka frowns. “Did you just say I’m hot?”

“Yes?” Adrien says. “I have eyes, you know. And a healthy appreciation for the male figure.” He smirks, leaning back against the wall. In times like this, he reminds Luka so much of Chat Noir that it’s impossible _not_ to think that they’re the same person. “But…I mean, asking Marinette out—I don’t know. There’s kind of this other girl who I’m still getting over…”

“Ladybug?” Luka says, before he can stop himself.

“Yes, La—wait, what?” Adrien says, eyes wide. “Uh, n-no. I mean, how…”

“I’m observant,” Luka says. “But, if you want my advice, I think you should go for Marinette.”

“Wait,” Adrien hisses. “What makes you think I’ve been in love with Ladybug? And—and can we take this conversation outside?”

Fifteen seconds later, standing on the deck with sun warming his skin, Luka tells Adrien, “You are not subtle.”

“Subtle about what?” Adrien asks, hugging his arms to himself.

“Literally anything,” Luka says. He tentatively reaches forward and grips Adrien’s shoulder, afraid to spook him with unwanted contact. “Listen, no one else wants to tell you this, but we are all in agony watching you and Marinette. You clearly like her, and she clearly likes you, and for some reason, neither one of you are doing anything about it.”

“I didn’t _know_ she liked me,” Adrien mumbles, avoiding Luka’s eyes. “And I told you, I’m still getting over…you know…”

“Your superhero partner?” Luka finishes.

“Right,” Adrien says. “Wait, I mean, _wrong._ I don’t have a superhero partner!”

Luka doesn’t have the energy to list out _every single reason_ that Adrien is clearly Chat Noir, so he dismisses that topic with a wave of his hand. “Sure. I’m just saying, you and Marinette would be a great couple, and as someone who’s friends with both of you, I can’t keep sitting by while you two stew in your emotions. At least consider asking her out?”

“It’s 2020,” Adrien says. “What if she wants to ask me out?”

“Will you say yes if she does?” Luka asks. “Or will you invite all your other friends because you think she’s talking about a group hangout?”

“I’ve never…done…” Adrien’s mouth falls open. “Oh, no. I’ve totally done that.” He reaches forward and grabs Luka’s hoodie, face centimeters from his. “Luka, I’m an idiot! Marinette has tried to ask me out, like, fifty times, and I never even realized.”

“Now you understand our agony,” Luka says. He pats Adrien’s head. “It’s okay. At least now you know.”

“Hey, are you two, like, about to make out or something?” a voice calls.

Adrien pauses and glances over Luka’s shoulder, fingers still curled in the fabric of his hoodie. “Oh, no way.”

Luka turns around, eyes widening when he finds XY standing at the top of the ramp leading onto the boat. “Uh…”

“Because I don’t need to be here,” XY says. “I have cooler stuff to do.” He frowns, tugging on the strap of a sparkly bag looped over his shoulder. “Hey, blond guy. Aren’t you famous?”

Luka closes his eyes and exhales heavily. Leave it to XY to remember celebrity instead of names.

“I have a name,” Adrien says, slowly letting go of Luka’s hoodie.

“Yeah, but that’s whatever,” XY says. “From this ramp thing, it totally looked like you two were making out. And wherever I go, the cameras go, so—you know, watch yourselves.”

Luka grimaces and glances at Adrien, whose face is almost as red as it was when Luka first asked him about Marinette.

“Oh, geez,” Adrien says, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t even think about the paparazzi.”

“Good thing the brains have arrived,” XY says, pointing to his absurd stack of hair.

“Too bad the brains are glued with hairspray,” Adrien mutters, and Luka valiantly manages not to laugh out loud at that.

“I told you,” Luka mutters, “be nice.”

“His hair is stupid,” Adrien whispers. “He’s representing us blonds, and he does _that_ with his hair? Ridiculous.”

Luka snorts. “I think you’ve been hanging out with Chloé too much.”

“At least Chloé knows good hair care.”

“Hello?” XY says. “Should I leave, or…?”

“No,” Luka says, “it’s just—well.”

What does he do? When he told XY to come by to _collaborate,_ he hadn’t considered that XY might show up when Kitty Section is practicing downstairs.

Luka’s friends are nice. They are good people. But they are not as forgiving as he is. (Already, his mind is conjuring images of Rose grabbing her microphone stand and nailing XY between the legs.)

“Going once, going twice,” XY says. His arms are folded, but there’s something tense about his posture, almost defensive. Luka wonders if he’s actually bothered by the fact that Luka might not want him there.

“Kitty Section is downstairs,” Luka says, “and…”

“They aren’t as generous as Luka,” Adrien says. “He might forgive you for stealing his song, but the rest of the band doesn’t.”

“Why do they care?” XY asks. “I didn’t steal from _them.”_

“If you steal from the songwriter, you steal from the band,” Adrien says. “Luka’s a good guy, and his friends aren’t going to easily forgive someone who tried to screw him over.” Luka watches as Adrien’s hands curl into fists, his silver ring glinting in the sunlight. “Honestly, I’m more forgiving than most, and even _I’m_ still mad about that.”

Luka considers trying to talk Adrien down, but he knows it won’t do much good. This is something they have in common: getting outraged on behalf of their friends. If Marinette couldn’t talk Luka out of getting angry after her designs were plagiarized, then Luka’s attempts to stop Adrien will probably be just as useless.

“Are you even in the band?” XY asks Adrien.

“Sometimes,” Adrien says.

“He’s a member of Kitty Section,” Luka confirms.

“Yeah, but he wasn’t there that day,” XY says. “I’d remember someone with hair that bad.”

“What?” Adrien says, sounding more offended than he has since the conversation started. “Did you just call _my_ hair bad?”

“It’s totally lifeless. Put some product in it or something.”

“Not as lifeless as his songs,” Adrien mutters, too quietly for XY to hear. Frowning, he pinches a lock of his hair and inspects it. “Luka, is my hair lifeless?”

“No, Adrien,” Luka says, sighing. “Your hair is as pretty as the rest of you. Look, XY, I can’t let you go downstairs when my band is down there. Someone _will_ throw something at you, and I don’t want you suing us for damages.”

XY shrugs, eyes darting off to the side. “Fine. I’ll just leave, then. Your loss.”

“No, wait,” Luka says.

“Luka,” Adrien murmurs, “just let him go.”

“I invited him,” Luka says. “I’m not going to make him leave now that he’s here.”

Adrien grabs Luka’s arm and turns them away from XY, then whispers, “You _invited_ him?”

”Yeah.”

“Wow. You have more patience than I do.”

Luka raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you friends with Chloé?”

“Chloé has never tried to plagiarize one of my friends,” Adrien says. “No, wait—that’s a lie. She tried to steal Marinette’s hat design once.” He rolls his eyes. “If I hadn’t known her since birth, I probably wouldn’t be friends with her.”

“Ah, see?” Luka says. “We both can’t resist helping lost causes. Let me handle this?”

Adrien’s mouth twists in a frown. “Okay. I trust you.”

Luka flashes him a quick smile, then turns back to face XY—who, surprisingly, didn’t sneak off while they were talking. “So,” Luka says. “I need to go downstairs and finish our practice session, which should be over in about a half hour.”

“A half hour?” XY echoes, looking disgusted. “Do I look like I’m made of time to you?”

“No, you look like you’re made of money,” Adrien says, pointing to the giant gold “XY” necklace he’s wearing. “And as they say, time is money.”

“Yeah, but that’s not the same as _money is time.”_

“He’s right,” Luka says, patting Adrien on the shoulder. “That’s a logical fallacy. Affirming the consequent.”

“Totally,” XY says. “So, quit…affirming that.” 

Adrien looks at Luka as if he’s grown a second head. “Are you teaming up with him against me?”

“No,” Luka says, though he’s kind of enjoying the look of utter confusion on Adrien’s face. (In general, he quite enjoys Adrien’s face.) “Hey, do me a favor? I think I can manage to fill out a half hour with songs that don’t have piano. Can you…possibly…”

He subtly jerks his head toward XY, not wanting to say the words _babysit XY_ out loud.

“You want him to babysit me,” XY says, scowling. “I don’t need to be supervised, you know.”

Adrien glances at the sidewalk below, and for the first time, Luka notices a man and a woman standing suspiciously still by the Liberty. Adrien exchanges a look with Luka, and they both nod, silently agreeing not to bring up the fact that XY has to have security follow him around.

After all, that’s not a fair thing to tease about. From being friends with Adrien, Luka knows how frustrating it can be for famous kids to have their freedoms restricted.

“I don’t want him to babysit you,” Luka tells XY. “I just want someone to keep you company so you’re not sitting up here by yourself.”

“It’s fine,” XY says, shrugging. “I’m a solo act. I’m used to being alone.”

Adrien makes an _oof_ sound. “Okay, yeah. Hey, XY, mind if I ask you a few questions about your music? I don’t get to meet popstars that often.”

XY raises an eyebrow, and despite his aloof nature, Luka thinks he might realize that Adrien is just trying to make him feel better. “I guess, since I have nothing better to do until this band practice or whatever is over.”

Adrien sighs. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he mutters to Luka, and then he leads XY over to the opposite side of the houseboat, far away from the stairs leading below deck.

To be fair, Luka has gotten stuck alone with XY _twice_ now, and he’ll probably have to spend the rest of this afternoon with him. It’s only fair if Adrien handles him for a few minutes.

Feeling only slightly guilty, Luka goes back downstairs to finish band practice. He lies and tells them that Adrien has gone home—carefully omitting the fact that XY is currently on the premises—and for the next thirty minutes, Luka almost enjoys himself.

Almost, except with each passing minute, he really does feel worse about leaving Adrien with XY. Adrien hardly ever gets to spend time with his friends, and now he’s being forced to spend some of his free time hosting an obnoxious popstar.

Luka resolves to make it up to Adrien eventually. 

Practice ends, and Luka holds his breath as Mylène, Ivan, and Rose slowly make their way out the door. The moment they’re gone, Luka exhales a sigh of relief.

“You’re hiding something,” Juleka says from behind him.

Luka spins around. Right—there’s really no hiding XY from his sister. “Xavier-Yves Roth is upstairs with Adrien.”

Juleka stares at him flatly. “Yeah. I guess that makes sense.” She shakes her head and walks back toward the door leading to their shared room. “Don’t let him in our room.”

The door clicks shut behind her, and Luka takes a moment to steel himself. Is he crazy, for doing this? He can’t help but feel that Adrien and Juleka are just humoring him, all while being quietly concerned for his sanity.

After a minute has passed, Luka realizes that he can’t delay the inevitable any longer. With another heavy sigh, he trudges upstairs to retrieve XY and apologize to Adrien.

He finds them hiding with the controls, Adrien slouched against the steering wheel while XY stands as far from him as possible. Neither one of them is speaking.

“Luka!” Adrien says, his face lighting up immediately. “There you are! If you’ll excuse me—”

“Hold on,” Luka says. “Xavier-Yves—”

“It’s XY,” XY says.

“XY,” Luka says. “You saw the steps earlier, right? Show yourself downstairs. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Face pinched in a frown, XY moseys toward the stairs, leaving Luka and Adrien alone in the control room.

“I am so sorry,” Luka says.

Adrien shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” Luka says. “I should have let you go back downstairs while I dealt with him. He’s my problem, not yours.”

“If we did that, I think the others would have been suspicious,” Adrien says. “And are you sure you don’t want to tell them? I…I’m willing to hide this for you, but I don’t love the idea of sneaking around behind our friends’ backs.”

“Right,” Luka says. He supposes Adrien already does enough of that, if he’s Chat Noir. “Listen, I don’t like lying either, so I’ll tell them the first chance I get. But if I’d told them _while_ he was here…Rose especially…”

“Oh, agreed,” Adrien says. “I don’t blame you for keeping quiet this time.”

Luka sighs, and the question he’s been asking himself for the past thirty minutes—or weeks, really—comes tumbling out. “Am I crazy for trying to help him?”

Immediately, Adrien’s expression softens. “No, Luka. I think it’s sweet. I mean, would I bother? Probably not. But you have more patience than I do.”

“I get the feeling you’re just saying that to make me feel better,” Luka says, “but thanks.”

“No, I mean it,” Adrien says. He pulls out his phone and unlocks it, then sighs. “I have to go, though. I just got a text saying my driver is here.”

“I _am_ sorry,” Luka repeats. “By the way—if you ever manage to sneak out of the mansion and want to hang out, I won’t ask questions. I know your father doesn’t let you spend time with friends often.”

Adrien raises an eyebrow. “Sneak out of my high security mansion?” 

Luka leans forward slightly. “Are you saying you can’t do it?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Adrien says, with a wry smile. “But also, I expect snacks to be provided. You owe me food after making me put up with XY for an hour.”

“You mean half an hour?”

“No. It felt like an hour.”

“Will do,” Luka says, patting him on the shoulder. “And…now I get to go do a _collab_ with XY, I guess.” He starts walking toward the stairs, and Adrien follows alongside him.

“Ooh, exciting,” Adrien says. “Luka Couffaine collaborating with a number-one pop sensation? Who would have guessed you’d make it big when you’re still so young?”

Luka snorts. “I think it’s going to be more like a very long, very painful music lesson.” He pauses in front of the stairs. “By the way, how did you keep XY from leaving or trying to come downstairs? He’s not usually that cooperative.”

“Oh.” A devious grin stretches Adrien’s lips. “I just told him about the time Rose dealt with that guy who was harassing her and Juleka.”

Luka can almost _feel_ the blood drain from his face. “You mean…with the…”

Adrien nods. “Yeah. And the garden spade.”

“Seriously?” Luka hisses. “He’s going to think we’re crazy.”

Adrien laughs. “Hey, at least he’s a little scared now. That means he’s more likely to behave.”

Luka’s not sure _why_ exactly he cares what XY thinks—but he’s a little bothered that XY might think Luka has surrounded himself with brutish garden spade-wielders.

“I hope you’re right,” Luka says.

They say their goodbyes, and Luka pauses to center himself. Then he realizes that he has left XY alone for _far_ too long.

Frantically calling a mix of X, Y, and _putain,_ Luka trips down the stairs and bursts into the living room.

To his confusion, XY is slumped on the couch, hands clasped on his stomach as he pouts at the far wall. Twiddling his thumbs, he asks, “Is that guy your boyfriend?”

“What?” Luka asks. It takes his brain a moment to figure out what XY has even said. “Adrien? No.”

“Oh. Agreste, I guess. That’s why he looked familiar.” XY purses his lips. “But…you think he’s hot?”

Luka opens and closes his mouth without making a sound. Finally, he manages to say, “Yes?”

“Really?” XY asks, scowling. “Is he even a natural blond?”

“Are _you_ even a natural blond?”

“I mean, yeah,” XY says. Finally, he turns to glare at Luka. “What, you think I’m some sort of phony?”

“I didn’t say that,” Luka says. “But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t insult my friend.”

XY crosses his arms. “I didn’t insult him,” he grumbles. “Whatever. So I lighten my hair a little, maybe, but I’m a natural blond.” He huffs. “Now, do you want me to work on that song with you, or what?”

“Yeah,” Luka says. “Do you want something to drink first?”

XY glances in the direction of the kitchen. “Like booze or something?”

“I…was thinking water or soda,” Luka says. He makes a mental note to put a padlock on the cupboard with his mother’s “fun time” alcohol stash, just in case XY visits again and decides to poke around.

“Nah, you won’t have the stuff I like,” XY says. “I’ll pass.”

“Okay.” Luka says. At this point, he’s not even bothered by XY’s refusals and insults—he’s guessing that XY only acts so difficult as a way to repel people. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

“So how do you usually start?” XY says, crossing one leg over the other. “I’m guessing your, like, creative process is different than mine.”

“Do you have a creative process?” Luka asks, genuinely curious.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Luka says, coming to stand by the couch, “that you told me last time that you just have computers throw together songs for you. I wasn’t sure if you actually had a process.”

XY makes a _tch_ sound. “I _could_ have one. So what do you do?”

“Right,” Luka says. He sighs and grabs his acoustic guitar from its stand and sits on the couch, putting a good amount of distance between himself and XY. “First…”

“What?” XY sneers. “Are you afraid to get near me?”

“I like having personal space,” Luka says.

“You didn’t say that when your friend was groping you earlier.”

“Adrien and I are friends,” Luka says, calmly tuning his guitar. “I’m comfortable with him being in my space.”

XY shrugs. “Fine, whatever.”

Luka strums a chord to check the tuning, then glances up. “Is something bothering you?”

“What? No. Why do you keep asking questions?”

“Because every time you say _whatever,_ it sounds like you actually have something on your mind.”

“Well, I don’t. You’re not, you know, exciting enough to get me thinking.”

Luka rolls his eyes and plays a few more chords, listening for any notes that ring incorrectly. Satisfied, he sits back against the couch. “Honestly, I don’t know if I have a _process._ I write based on what I’m feeling, whether it’s a feeling I have or a feeling I get from someone else.”

XY waves a hand. “That’s too—unspecific.”

“Abstract?”

“Yeah, that. Just tell me how you write a song.”

 _Don’t you know?_ Luka wants to ask, but he knows confrontation won’t get him anywhere. “What did you do, that time you wrote the songs that you showed to your father?”

XY scoffs and swings his feet up onto the couch, then flops over on his back. “Why are you trying to talk about him? Can’t we just start doing music or whatever?”

Luka sighs. “I was thinking I could modify my _process_ to match yours.”

XY grumbles something to himself. “I don’t know,” he says. “Just, you know. Came up with them.”

“I’m not going to judge you, you know.”

XY sits up and scowls at Luka over his knees. “Hey, can you not lie? You’ve been judging me ever since I got here—actually, you know what? You’ve been judging me since we met. It’s—it’s dumb to be around.”

“What do you mean, _dumb to be around?”_

“I don’t like it!” XY says, flailing his arms. His hair flops a little as he moves. “Every time I’m in a room with you, I feel like you’re looking at me going, _I hate that guy._ It’s so annoying! Just say it, instead of being all mysterious.”

Luka’s eyes fall to his guitar, and he runs his fingers across the strings without playing them. Maybe that’s the look of fear he sees in XY’s eyes every time they’re together—the fear of judgment.

“I don’t hate you,” Luka says. “So there’s nothing to say. And I’m sorry if I seem mysterious. I’m quiet, and I tend to keep to myself. Whenever I try to tell people what I’m thinking, I usually end up being too blunt.”

“Blunt! Yes! Just do that.” XY flops down on his back again. “Ugh. I don’t like trying to figure out what you’re thinking.”

 _I thought you didn’t care what other people think,_ Luka almost says, but he stops himself before the words can leave his mouth. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll try to be more straightforward.”

“Awesome.”

“I think that you have somewhere you want to start, but you’re not saying it because I have more experience with writing songs, and you’re afraid that I’m going to make fun of you.”

“I’m _afraid?”_ XY says. Growling, he sits up again, swinging his legs back to the ground. “I told you, I don’t care what you think of me. You’re not even one of my fans! Why should I pay attention to you?” He shrugs, fiddling with the chain of his necklace. “And you’re wrong. I don’t have any ideas. I figured I’d just show up, you’d write something, I’d tell you it’s good, and then I could go back to doing important stuff.”

“Okay,” Luka says, his voice measured. “How about we skip to the last part? I don’t need you to sit here while I write a song. Just go back to doing important stuff, if you want.”

He lets his fingers float across the strings of his guitar, idly finding notes and seeing how they sound together. He’s not looking for a melody, not really—just something to do with his hands until XY admits that he actually wants to write a song.

“So that’s it?” XY asks, after a few bars. “You’re just going to play the guitar and ignore me until I leave?”

“You don’t have to leave,” Luka says. He strums through different chords, switching from major to minor and back again. “And I’m not ignoring you.”

“You’re annoying,” XY says.

“Okay,” Luka says. “Then leave.”

“I know what you’re trying to do.”

Luka raises an eyebrow as he shifts his fingers through a chain of arpeggios. “And what’s that?”

“Trick me into staying.” XY runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, that’s it. You just don’t want to admit that you want to write a song with me.”

“You caught me,” Luka says, unable to hold back the sarcasm. “I’ve hit a creative dead end, and without your help, my music career will tragically end at the age of sixteen.”

“You don’t have to lay it on so thick,” XY says. “I get it, you desperately need my help.”

“Are you…joking?”

“What?” XY says. “Um, no. My sense of humor’s not that lame.”

Luka’s pretty sure XY was trying to joke. “It was kind of funny, I guess.”

“Kind of?”

Luka taps his palm against the body of his guitar. “Can we get started?”

“Why are you asking me? You’re the guy who keeps holding us up and trying to have a conversation.”

“Sure,” Luka mutters. _“I’m_ the one holding us up.”

Even once Luka and XY stop bickering, though, it still takes them a half hour to get started.

Luka had foolishly figured that it wouldn’t be that hard. He’s taught some kids guitar before, after all, and that was never horrible. Of course, there was always the kid who was self-taught and wouldn’t listen to the proper way to do things, or the kid who got angry and tried to throw the guitar because it “wouldn’t play right.”

Luka has dealt with difficult students before. He thought he was prepared to deal with XY.

He was not.

Luka starts simply. He plays a few chords and asks XY to figure out a tune that goes over them. Even with _that,_ XY cannot resist being difficult.

“Why don’t I get to pick the chords?”

“This is just a warm-up,” Luka says.

“This is dumb. You’re wasting my time.”

“Okay. Then leave.” 

But of course, no matter how many times Luka invites XY to leave, he doesn’t. It would _almost_ be flattering, if not for the fact that Luka is going insane trying to keep his temper in check.

Once XY finally agrees to go with the exercise, Luka struggles not to cringe. XY keeps throwing in hooks that don’t match the tunes he hums, and relying on rhythms that are wildly out of sync with Luka’s strumming pattern.

What makes it most annoying is that XY clearly has a sense of rhythm; when Luka first started playing, he’d seen XY’s foot start tapping against the ground, matching the pace Luka set. And every once in a while, XY _does_ hum some notes that match the chords, before deviating on some god-awful run.

“Are you trying to sound bad?” Luka finally snaps, after thirty-two minutes of suffering.

“Figures,” XY says, folding his arms. “You said you wouldn’t judge me, and now you’re all cocky because you think you're better at music."

"No,” Luka says, gritting his teeth. “I mean it sounds like you’re _literally_ trying to sound bad. You know how to keep time. You know how to sing in key. Why do you keep doing…that?”

“I’m trying to be creative,” XY says flippantly.

“It sounds like you’re trying to force something you aren’t feeling.”

“You’re just saying that because you don’t like my style of music.”

“If by style you mean _off-key and off-beat,_ then sure.”

“You know what?” XY says. “That sounds exciting. Let’s go with that.”

Luka has a working theory, of course: XY is purposely trying to be bad, because he doesn’t want to hear what Luka says if he tries to be _good._ XY already got told once by his father that his music was garbage; if he forces Luka into saying the same thing, at least he knows what to expect.

“Great,” Luka says. “Keep it up. Can we try that one more time? This time I think we can work with whatever you come up with.” Holding his guitar in place with one hand, he pulls out his phone with the other. “Hold on, let me start an audio recording. That way we can listen back to what we record and—”

“No way!” XY says, his voice suddenly louder. Luka thinks he might hear Juleka groan from within their bedroom. “You can’t record me for free. People pay money to hear recordings of me.”

Luka raises an eyebrow. “I’m not going to sell it, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“How do I know that?” XY says. “Maybe you want some extra cash.”

“Do I look like the kind of person to do that?”

“Oh, man,” XY says, sitting back. “Never trust how people look. That’s some _pro advice_ for you, straight from the music industry.”

“Is that so?” Luka says. “So, you’re nothing how you look, then?”

“Me?” XY says. “Psh. I mean, I look cool and I _am_ cool, so what you see is what you get. But since I look so awesome, people think I’m mean. I’m nice, though! I mean, I’m helping you with this song, aren’t I?”

“I don’t think your image is the reason people think you’re mean.”

XY waves a hand, bracelet sparkling with bling as he does. “Let me have this excuse.”

“Okay,” Luka says, smiling a little. “Your image does make you look like an asshole. All your jewelry is really flamboyant, and your hairstyle is ridiculous.” He shakes his head and strums a few chords. “Four years from now, you’ll see pictures of your hair and wonder what you were thinking.”

“Yeah? Says the guy with weird blue hair.”

“Hey, plenty of people dye their hair,” Luka says. “But no one wears their hair like…that.”

“Duh,” XY says. “It’s part of my brand.” 

“How many hair products do you and your _brand_ go through in a week?”

“You know, I think you like insulting me,” XY says. “Weird. I thought you were nice or something.”

“I’m usually very—”

“And, like, you’re just proving my point,” XY says, splaying his hands. “Can’t trust appearances. I bet everyone thinks you’re nice, but you’re actually mean.”

 _“I’m_ mean?”

“Yeah. You’re pushy and you’ve got anger issues.”

“Anger issues?”

XY makes a _pfft_ noise. “Talk about unoriginal. You’re just repeating everything I say. And yeah, anger issues? You totally attacked me at the studio that one time. Shoved me and ripped my mask off. I should have called security on you.”

Luka winces. _That_ part of their meeting, he definitely remembers. He still can’t believe he let himself get so mad that he invaded XY’s personal space; usually he’s careful about respecting people’s boundaries. “I won’t do that again.”

“Eh, whatever,” XY says. “I wasn’t actually afraid of you. Your arms are pretty skinny.”

“What?” Luka asks, and for some reason, he’s actually offended. He glances down at his arms. “I carry heavy equipment all the time. My arms aren’t skinny.”

“Don’t feel bad,” XY says, inspecting his nails. “Not everyone can be fit.”

“Moving on,” Luka says. “Let’s go back to that exercise? And this time, whatever tune you come up with, we’re using.”

“Too bad,” XY says. “I’ve lost inspiration. Can’t think of anything.”

“You just spent half an hour coming up with stuff.”

“Yeah, but none of that was good.”

“Oh, really?” Luka says. “So you admit you were trying to be bad.”

“Man,” XY says. He picks something from underneath his nails—which are actually nice and polished, now that Luka takes a closer look—and flicks it across the room. “Quit playing games. It’s stupid.”

“I _have_ to play games with you,” Luka says, a growl entering his voice, “because every honest effort I make, you act like a jerk and brush it off. You’re impossible to work with.”

“I’ve heard that one before,” XY says. “See? Even your insults are unoriginal.” 

“It’s not an insult.” Luka sighs, clutching his guitar to his chest like a shield. “Why are you here? Because I thought maybe you secretly wanted me to help you with your music, but even when I give you excuses to protect your ego, you won’t take them.”

“I can come up with my own excuses, thanks,” XY says.

Luka inhales deeply through his nose, then slowly exhales. “I’m doing you a favor. You don’t want to admit it, and that’s fine, but you and I both know this doesn’t benefit me.”

XY crosses his arms and stares at the far wall, his brow furrowed in a scowl. Finally, he mutters, “Fine. But none of this _musical exercise_ crap. It’s not working.”

Luka nods. Is this progress? He doesn’t dare hope. “Okay. So, what genre do you like? Electronic, I guess? I don’t know a ton about that style of music, but I can probably follow along.”

“Well, for one thing, I hate that rock stuff you do,” XY says, bending over. He pulls out his bag from behind an amp, which Luka hadn’t noticed until now. It’s covered in almost as much bling as XY’s phone. “Your music’s got no chill.”

Luka’s not exactly sure what that means, but he decides not to start an argument. “Okay,” he says instead, as XY pulls a laptop out of the bag. “So, you could start by playing me an example of what you like, if you want?”

XY rolls his eyes as he opens the laptop. “That’s what I’m _doing.”_ He clicks around a few times, and a lazy beat fills the air. Luka’s soul shrivels a bit at the sound. “See, none of that loud crazy crap. Just beats people can vibe to.”

“This sounds like a demo track,” Luka says flatly.

“A what?”

“Like one of those sample tracks that comes free with a program.”

XY groans and shuts the lid of his laptop. “Like you could do better. Whatever. I don’t know what sound I like. I always just go with what sells.”

“Well…what kind of music do you listen to, then?” Luka asks.

“I don’t? Too time-consuming. I’m a busy guy.” XY shrugs, tugging on his headband to adjust it. “Sometimes I listen to stuff to do research, but it’s not like I like it.”

“Research. You mean…searching for _inspiration?”_

“Yeah. That.”

Right. Of course XY only listens to music that he might want to steal. Sighing, Luka sets aside his guitar. “Can I see your laptop?”

“No way. Get your own.”

“Do you want my help, or not?”

“See, that’s the thing,” XY says, although he does slide his laptop across the cushions to Luka. “You just _assumed_ I wanted your help, because you think you’re so important. Ever consider I might have another reason for being here?”

Luka frowns, pulling up XY’s internet browser. “What other _possible_ reason could you have for being here?”

“I don’t know,” XY says. “I’m just saying, maybe you’re not as cool as you think you are.”

 _He’s projecting,_ Luka tells himself, trying to maintain a zen-filled mind. _He doesn’t actually mean what he’s saying._ “Well, not all of us can be chart-toppers with horrible hair.”

“Yeah, that’s—wait.”

Luka snorts, then starts pulling up tabs and typing song names into the search bar. To his confusion, one of the autofill suggestions is _do crocodiles hold grudges,_ which he decides not to bring up.

A minute or two later, he’s collected a decent assortment of songs representing different genres. Satisfied with his spur-of-the-moment playlist, Luka starts playing the first song.

“What’re you doing?” XY asks.

“Giving you an overview of different genres,” Luka says. “Hopefully this will give you some ideas for what direction you want to go.”

“Cool,” XY says. “So I just pick one to copy?”

“I seriously can’t tell if you’re kidding.”

As an improvised trumpet solo fills the room, XY stares at his laptop as if it’s started smoking. “What is this crap?”

“It’s jazz?” Luka says, slightly horrified. “What do you mean, _crap?”_

“Where are the sick beats? It’s all mushy and boring.”

Luka thinks his soul might actually leave his body for a moment. “Mushy and—okay. Never mind. Moving on.”

Lounging on the couch, XY shoots down the next several options. Big band music is “too loud,” while blues gets the same treatment as jazz. Folk is “snore-worthy,” and when Luka plays the first three notes of a country song, XY yells at him to turn it off—which, actually, might be the one thing they both agree on.

Then Luka winces and hits play on “Stayin’ Alive.” Within a few seconds, XY sits up lightning-fast and points to the computer. “What the hell? Why didn’t you play this sooner?”

Luka freezes, staring at his screen as the Bee Gees strut down a street. _Please, no,_ he thinks. _Anything but this._

“I mean,” XY adds, as Barry Gibb begins singing in falsetto. “I can’t sing that high unless you kick me in the balls, but that’s what special effects are for.”

Luka slowly nods, eyes fixed on the screen.

“What are you watching?” XY asks. “Ooh, wait, is there a music video?” He crawls over to Luka’s end of the couch—ignoring the way Luka flinches and hisses _personal space_ —then hovers over his shoulder to watch the screen. “Yeah, man! Now, these guys have style. Who are they?”

“The Bee Gees,” Luka says woodenly. “They actually did some pop stuff I like, but the disco…”

“Look at that style,” XY says, pointing to Barry Gibb and his shiny silver jacket. “Iconic. And he’s even got bling! These Heebie-Jeebies—”

“Bee Gees.”

“These Gee Bees guys know what’s going on.” XY nods and sits back, finally vacating Luka’s personal bubble. “I want to do this song.”

“Okay,” Luka says, as he closes out of the tab. “But we’re not _doing that song._ We’re doing that genre.” _Unfortunately,_ he mentally adds. “I think we can still put something together with the tools you’re used to, though. What sort of music software do you have?”

“Nothing you can afford,” XY says.

“Great,” Luka says. “I’ll just search through your files, then.”

Ignoring XY’s stuttered protests—because really, he deserves it after insulting Luka’s wallet yet again—Luka pulls up the files folder to search for XY’s music programs.

Immediately, he’s greeted by several large thumbnails of mirror selfies: all shirtless, with sweatpants hanging dangerously low on XY’s hips, and a pouting look on his face that he _probably_ thinks is attractive (but really just looks dumb).

Aside from his silly expression, though…

Luka closes his eyes, face burning. “Um.”

“Mirror selfies?” XY asks.

“Yeah.”

Again, the couch cushion dips as XY sits next to Luka and peers at the computer. “Aw, no! Those are the unedited ones!”

Luka opens his eyes and squints at the screen. “Why would you _edit_ them?”

“Uh, because I want to look good?”

Staring over the top of the laptop screen, Luka says, “You, uh. You don’t need to edit them.” Still blushing, he hastily puts the laptop on XY’s lap. “Um. I’ll just let you find the software now.”

They sit in silence while XY pulls up the program, and Luka begs the blush in his face to go away. It’s not like this is the first time he’s seen a shirtless guy. He shouldn’t have so much trouble getting a hold of himself.

A few moments later, XY—uncharacteristically quiet—hands the laptop back to Luka, and then their work begins.

To Luka’s disappointment, there is no real moment of _oh, he’s not that bad._ No. XY is insufferable, and he really doesn’t know that much about music. And normally, that _would_ be fine; after all, anyone can make music, with a little bit of effort.

But that’s the problem: XY doesn’t want to put in any effort. 

XY keeps asking Luka if _he_ has any ideas, and when Luka turns the question on him, XY gets defensive. “I don’t know anything about disco or whatever,” he says at one point. “I figured you were going to teach me.” Or, “Yeah, I’m sure you think your ideas are so much better than mine.” Getting XY to hum _a single bar of notes_ takes an entire half hour, at which point he refuses to add more until he hears Luka’s ideas.

“This is a collab, you know,” XY says, running a hand up his hair. “I can’t do all the work.”

“You know what,” Luka says. He shoves the laptop onto XY’s lap, then picks up his guitar from where he set it earlier. “You’re right. How about this?”

Struggling not to roll his eyes, he plays a rough melody on the strings: the first two lines of the chorus from “Believe in My Dream,” the only XY song that Luka knows in its entirety.

“Yeah!” XY says. “That’s good. I like that.”

“Oh, you don’t say?” Luka says. “That makes sense, since it’s literally the tune of one of your songs.”

“Really?” XY says, his mouth falling open. “So you stole from me!”

“I did not _steal_. I was making a point.”

“Can you make your point with words like a normal person? I don’t speak guitar.”

Luka sighs. “Do you seriously not recognize your own song?”

XY shrugs. “I thought it sounded kind of familiar, but so does a lot of stuff, you feel? Besides, a few of those songs are pretty similar, so it’s easy to get them mixed up.”

“XY,” Luka says, internally cringing at the name. “What song did I just play?”

“Duh,” XY says. “That’s so obvious. Do you think I don’t recognize my own song?”

Luka raises his eyebrows.

“I mean, I _would_ have recognized it,” XY says. “I just wasn’t really paying attention, because I thought you’d play something boring. Plus, I think you played a few notes wrong. Play it again?” Luka does, and XY’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “Uh. The summer one?”

“No,” Luka says. “Not even close. Try _Believe in My Dream?”_

“I don’t remember that one. Is that a bonus track?”

“You really don’t care about the music you’re making,” Luka realizes. He’d thought Jagged Stone was just insulting XY when he said that he didn’t care about his own music, but that’s exactly it.

XY shrugs. “I mean, I don’t hate it.”

“Why are you in the music industry if you don’t care about your music?”

“I don’t know, maybe the same reason your boyfriend is a model?”

“He’s not my—”

“Look, at least I’m rich, hot, and famous. That’s three things I have going for me. What do you have?”

“Music I care about? Friends?” Luka says. “Better hair?”

“I’ll give you two of those,” XY says. “Look, what do I care if my music is a little forgettable? I’m not doing, like, backbreaking work. It’s easy money. You know what would be way worse? Wasting a bunch of time on songs that don’t make any money.” He sniffs. “You know, like what you’re doing.”

“We’ve actually gotten paid for a few gigs,” Luka says weakly.

XY raises an eyebrow and slowly claps. “And how many pains au chocolat did that buy you?”

Luka glares, holding XY’s gaze for a few seconds—then glances away and mumbles, “Two dozen.”

“Wait, seriousl—”

“And the rest went into our bank account, so that we can afford equipment and stuff,” Luka adds. “I get it: you think music has to make money. But if you can’t even remember your own songs, doesn’t _that_ seem like the real waste of time?”

“Uh, no,” XY says. “Because I’m rich.”

“Right,” Luka mutters. “I guess I forgot who I was talking to.” He sighs and presses his fingers against the strings of his guitar, mapping out different chords. “Let’s just get back to—”

“No, hold on,” XY says. “What’s the big deal if I like money? What’s so bad about that? It’s not like I’m punching babies or running over puppy dogs.”

“Well—it’s…” Luka frowns at the fretboard. For once, he’s not actually sure how to respond to XY.

Luka can _surmise_ that XY’s love of cash has probably made him a bit greedy, but he doesn’t actually know him well enough to say that. The same goes for being spoiled: Luka has no doubt that XY was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but…well, right now, there’s technically no spoon in sight.

In fact, the more Luka thinks about it, XY will call anything Luka says a snap judgment, and he’ll probably be right.

“Yeah, thought so,” XY says. “You’re just making assumptions. People who have less money are always angry at rich people for no reason.”

“Okay,” Luka says, _“that_ is a different conversation, and I have neither the time nor patience to get into that. Go ahead and like your money. I won’t stop you.” He strums a few chords, just so he has something to do with his hands. “But right now, we’re not doing this for money, so why don’t we try to write a song you actually enjoy? Maybe even one you’ll actually _remember?”_

“Fine, I guess,” XY says. “If it makes you feel better.”

XY is slightly less insufferable for the rest of the writing session—but pulling ideas out of him still feels like trying to pull a pillow from Fang’s terrifying crocodile jaws. He retracts ideas as soon as he puts them forward (probably because he’s afraid that Luka will reject them), and whenever Luka suggests minor adjustments, XY acts as if Luka has just pissed on his shoes.

By the end of it, they barely have anything done. That said, Luka feels confident that what they _have_ finished is more or less XY’s original work.

“Ugh.” XY scowls at his phone. “Dinnertime already? We didn’t even finish the chorus! Are you always this slow?”

“You know, it’s funny,” Luka says. “Whenever I write alone, I usually work faster. I wonder what’s different this time?”

Looking unimpressed, XY raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, okay, I see what you’re trying to say. I’m not stupid.” He rolls his eyes. “I get the feeling you’re annoyed by me, but—”

“Huh,” Luka says. “I guess you’re _not_ stupid.”

“And he strikes again,” XY drawls. “Are you sure you have friends? Because, like, you’re kind of rude. Everything you say sounds like an insult.”

“Rude?” Luka echoes, feeling like he’s been slapped. 

Where did XY get _that_ from? Almost everyone Luka knows agrees that he’s calm, rational, and polite. He always makes an effort to see the best in people, and he rarely gets angry or lashes out. He’s the kind of boyfriend that people want to introduce to their parents. The kind of guy that makes adults turn to Anarka and say, _What a nice young man._ In fact, despite Luka’s eccentric and dangerous mother, _Gabriel Agreste_ lets his son hang out with him! That says something, doesn’t it?

And yet, despite all that, XY has the gall to call Luka rude? Rude.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s kind of entertaining,” XY says. “Usually people are all, _oh, XY, you’re so hot and talented, give me an autograph!_ Meanwhile, you’re like, _your hair is ugly and your music sucks._ I mean, obviously you’re wrong, but at least you don’t sound like anyone else.” He snaps his fingers and points a finger gun at Luka. “Originality.”

“I’m not rude,” Luka says, his brain refusing to move on from that stupid word.

“Hey, don’t be embarrassed,” XY says. “Not everyone can be super nice all the time.”

Luka stares at XY, wondering if maybe he’s speaking a different language that just _sounds_ like French. “I’m nice,” he says helplessly.

“Okay.” XY shrugs. “Like, I’m not complaining. I think it’s funny.”

“You…think me being rude…is funny?”

Now, Luka refuses to admit that he’s being rude—because obviously, he isn’t—but if he _has_ insulted XY, he certainly didn’t mean it to be a _joke._ Hypothetically, if Luka insulted XY, then he would one hundred-percent mean it.

“Yeah, like, your comebacks are pretty good for a super awkward guy.”

Super awkward? XY thinks Luka is _super awkward?_ Luka is perfectly well-adjusted! XY is the one who can’t walk into a room without pissing someone off. Now, _that_ is super awkward.

Growling, Luka sets his guitar down and pushes himself to his feet. “Anyway, as I was saying earlier, it’s getting late, and I don’t want to risk my mom finding you down here when she gets home. She’s not a fan.”

“Yeah, I’ve wanted to leave for a while now,” XY says. He yawns and slowly stands, then pauses to stretch his arms above his head. Luka does not—does _not—_ watch as the hem of XY’s shirt rides up, revealing a bit of stomach and the jut of his hips. “I just didn’t want to be rude. So, like, I should come back another time?”

“If you want to finish the song, yes.”

“Sure,” XY says. “Happy to offer my expertise.” He pronounces the last word as three separate syllables—ex, per, tise—which makes Luka far angrier than it should.

Not to mention that it’s completely ludicrous to pretend that _XY_ is the one helping _Luka_ with the song. Why are they still pretending that’s a thing? It’s ridiculous.

Luka waits for XY to put his laptop away, then escorts him to the ramp of the boat.

“Thanks for coming by,” Luka says, because he is a polite, well-mannered young man who does not have a single rude bone in his body.

“Yeah, thanks, I guess,” XY says, because he is an insufferable, ungracious prick whose mere voice makes Luka want to punch a wall.

Luka watches as XY descends the ramp and is flanked by his security guards. Satisfied that he will not be held responsible for endangering a pop sensation, Luka turns and heads back downstairs.

On his way to his room, he stares at his mother’s “fun time” cabinet a little longer than usual—but no one could blame him for that, really, after he spent an entire afternoon with Xavier-Yves Roth.


	4. Style Swap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter now features some [fantastic art](https://komorebirei.tumblr.com/post/639484848694870016/who-is-this-yes-its-xy-roth-i-drew-it-for-my) by my pal Rei (whose amazing fics you can read [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/komorebirei/pseuds/komorebirei)). Go check out both once you've finished the chapter! (Or before. I can't tell y'all how to live your lives.) 
> 
> Quick note: I interpreted “style swap” as “characters swapping out their usual styles” rather than “characters swapping styles with each other.” Hope that still works!

“You seem tense,” Marinette notes, as Luka tightly grips his guitar without playing it. She’s sitting in the deck chair next to him, slumped down as she designs something or other in her sketchbook.

In the past, she’s told Luka that his music helps her focus—so she’s probably noticed that he hasn’t played a single note since she arrived a half hour ago. And he _would_ play, except he doubts that angry metal riffs are the kind of music that will help Marinette get work done.

“I’m not tense,” Luka says, teeth gritted. He sighs. “Really, I’m not. Right now, I’m feeling angry music, but I don’t want to distract you from your work.”

Marinette frowns, then sets her sketchbook down on her lap. “Angry music? What happened?”

Luka sighs again, running his fingers up and down the strings. Although Marinette is fair and just, she’s not going to be _quite_ as forgiving as Adrien when it comes to dealing with Xavier-Yves Roth. For one thing, she’d personally witnessed the XY incident that led to Luka getting akumatized, and for another, she didn’t grow up with a best friend like Chloé. Luka doubts she understands the point in desperately trying to get through to someone who…well, honestly, someone who probably can’t be gotten through to.

He blinks and frowns at the boards of wood making up the deck. When he thinks about it that way, it does sound kind of useless.

“I’m…helping someone I probably shouldn’t help,” Luka finally says.

There’s a moment of silence, and then Marinette leans forward, her fingers lightly resting against the bracelets on Luka’s wrist. “Luka,” she murmurs. “Is this person making you do something illegal? If so, um, I can talk to Ladybug or—”

“No, no,” Luka says. “Nothing illegal. Actually, I’m trying to help this person _avoid_ something illegal.” He tries to come up with a better way to break this to Marinette, but after a minute of awkward silence, he gives up. “It’s Xavier-Yves.”

“Roth?” Marinette repeats, eyes widening. “XY Roth?”

“I know I sound crazy—”

“You owe him nothing,” Marinette says. “I don’t know what he said to you—”

“He didn’t say anything,” Luka says. “I offered to help him write a song, and he took me up on it. And before you tell me I’m crazy, or that I’m making a mistake, Adrien backs me up on this.”

“I can’t believe you’re playing the ‘Adrien’ card,” Marinette grumbles.

Luka laughs and plucks a few playful notes on the guitar. “He knows what he’s talking about. He’s used to dealing with obnoxious people like Xavier-Yves.”

“But is it even possible?” Marinette asks. “I mean, Luka, how do you work with him? He’s rude and has other people do everything for him.”

“Funnily enough, he thinks _I’m_ the rude one,” Luka says. “We…I don’t know. I’ve kind of got him figured out. He’s got a lot of insecurities and masks them with a bad attitude. So, I just give him excuses to use, to protect his ego. It works pretty well.”

“Except he thinks you’re rude,” Marinette says. She sounds just as baffled as Luka feels, which is validating, at least. “So you wrote a song together?”

“Part of one,” Luka says. “He’s only come back once since then. I didn’t give him my number, just my address—”

“He’s been at the _Liberty?”_

“You know, Adrien didn’t judge me for that, either,” Luka says. “At least, not as much. I’m pretty sure he told me I was sweet.”

“I’m pretty sure he just said that because he thinks you’re cute.” Marinette huffs. “I’ll spend an hour trying to figure out my hair or pick a pair of shoes to go with an outfit, and all he ever looks at is your stupid butt in your stupid skinny jeans.”

“Marinette,” Luka says, sighing, “he might _occasionally_ ogle my ass, but trust me, Adrien constantly looks at you like you’re the most amazing thing he’s ever seen. He also can’t shut up about how sweet, adorable, clever, and brave you are. I promise I won’t keep saying this if you don’t want me to—”

“I really think you’re mistaken. He likes someone el—”

“—but if you ask him out, I’m almost positive he’ll say yes.”

Marinette bites her lip. “I don’t know, Luka. I’ve tried to ask him out before, and he always tries to make it into a group hangout.”

“I know,” Luka says, remembering his conversation with Adrien the other day. “But it doesn’t hurt to try again. Maybe if you explicitly tell him it’s a date…?”

“No,” Marinette says. “No, that word is too intimidating! And I mean, if he _wanted_ to go on a date with me, that’s how he’d understand the question, right? So the fact that he’s misunderstanding—that’s basically a rejection, which means I should stop trying.”

Is it possible to get akumatized because both of your friends are idiots who won’t date each other? Luka’s not quite as frustrated as he was when he got akumatized, but he’s getting there. In fact, if Papillon offered to help Luka get Adrien and Marinette together in exchange for their Miraculouses, Luka would probably take him up on it.

“I won’t force you,” Luka says. “Just…consider it? It’s pretty obvious to all of us that you like each other. We can only stand so much mutual pining.”

“Mutual?” Marinette says, nose wrinkling. “I don’t know about that. He said he likes another girl.”

Right. The other girl. Who is probably Ladybug. Who is probably Marinette. “For all you know, the other girl is you, and he’s just being evasive,” Luka says. “Anyway, that’s my take.”

Marinette nods to herself. “And now that you’re done avoiding the subject—Luka, are you sure it’s a good idea to spend time with XY? He got you akumatized!”

“I got myself akumatized,” Luka corrects. “Xavier-Yves was annoying, and his father was horrible, but I didn’t have to let my anger get the best of me.” He shakes his head and strums a sustained chord, letting sweet dissonance hang in the air. “Look, he’s not that bad. I think he just needs friends. You know, like Chloé does.”

“Chloé needs a lot more than friends,” Marinette mutters. “She also needs morals, and a better conscience, and—well, probably the same things XY needs, I guess.” She sighs. “You don’t have to do this, you know. Like I said before, you owe him nothing.”

“I know,” Luka says. “But I’m doing it, so…whatever.” He snorts at his own word choice; maybe he’s been listening to XY too much.

“Okay,” Marinette says. “I just don’t want you to do this for the wrong reasons.”

“I promise,” Luka says, “I’m only doing it for good reasons.” He’s not exactly sure what those reasons _are_ , but he’s pretty sure that they’re selfless and charitable.

Luka goes back to messing around on the guitar, but he looks up when he sees movement out of the corner of his eye. It’s someone walking up the ramp of the Liberty, and a quick glance at their stature and blond hair tells Luka that it’s not his mother or any member of Kitty Section.

“Who is that?” Marinette murmurs.

“I’m…not sure,” Luka says. “I can’t see their face. They’re kind of hot, though.”

“Well, do you have any hot blond friends?”

“Besides Adrien? No.”

The stranger has corn-yellow hair combed back and gathered in a bun against their neck, and wears sleek sunglasses that obscure the top half of their face. There’s something familiar about the bored line of their mouth, but between the unfamiliar hairstyle and hidden eyes, Luka can’t place the person.

Their clothes aren’t much of a clue, either: with plain blue skinny jeans and a snug, untucked t-shirt, this person could be anybody.

“Oh, sorry,” the stranger says. They brush a few stubborn hairs off their forehead, ones that seem insistent on drooping down in front of their face. “Are you busy?”

“Uh,” Luka says, exchanging a glance with Marinette. “Not really. What can we do for you?” 

The stranger lowers their glasses slightly. Gray-blue eyes peer at Luka, sharp and clear, piercing him like an arrow. “Are you pretending not to recognize me?” the stranger asks. Luka stares quizzically, and the person snorts. “Rude.”

Instant recognition shocks Luka, reminiscent of the way he felt when Juleka once dropped an ice cube down the back of his shirt. “X—I mean—Xavier-Yves?”

Marinette snickers. “Oh, my god.”

Luka stands and fumbles with his guitar, trying to set it down on the deck chair. He suddenly feels awkward and clumsy, all while XY looms over him looking like…well, _that._

“Who else?” XY asks.

“You called him hot,” Marinette says, still laughing.

“No,” Luka says, his voice a bit too high. “No, I didn’t.”

“Sounds legit,” XY says.

“I didn’t,” Luka repeats, because he does not stand for lies. “I…said…something similar, but not that _._ ” He clears his throat. “Right, well, I guess you’re here to work on the song.”

“Well, I’m not here for the scenery,” XY says, folding his arms.

“Luka’s good-looking!” Marinette says indignantly.

XY tilts his head. “I was talking about the water? I’m not big on boats. That reminds me—why do you live on a boat? It’s weird. I feel like I’m gong to get eaten by a shark or something.”

“Don’t worry,” Luka says, “there aren’t sharks in this part of the Seine.”

Once again, XY lowers his glasses to squint at Luka. “You think there are sharks in the Seine?”

“I was kidding.”

“Stick to your insults,” XY says. “They’re funnier.”

Luka’s face burns—because not only has he failed to be funny, apparently, but Marinette is standing right there to witness all of his shame. He can’t exactly lie and tell her, _oh, yeah, I was super smooth_ when she’s seeing this with her own two eyes.

“Right,” Luka says. “Marinette, is it okay if I go?”

Marinette nods. “Yes. I see your reason now.” She sighs. “I don’t think it’s a good reason, but…well, everyone has a different _style.”_

“Ugh, she does it, too,” XY says. “The saying-things-without-saying-things deal. What’s up with that?”

Luka stares at Marinette, eyes wide. “You think I’m…no! That’s not why I’m…” She raises her eyebrows, and he groans. “I’ll see you around, Marinette. Think about what I said?”

He can’t believe this. Marinette actually thinks he’s doing this because he has a crush on Xavier-Yves Roth? Maybe she’s not Ladybug, after all. Isn’t Paris’s favorite heroine supposed to be more observant than that?

“Sure.” Looking vaguely concerned, Marinette packs up her sketching supplies and strolls toward the ramp leading down to the sidewalk. As she leaves, she calls, “Don’t push each other overboard!”

XY takes a step back. “You’ve pushed people overboard? Because that Adrien guy told me about your sister’s girlfriend and the garden spade, and—”

“No, I don’t push people overboard,” Luka says. “And the garden spade was a one-time thing. Are you coming?”

XY glances over Luka’s shoulder at the stairs leading below deck. “Is garden spade girl down there?”

“No, just my sister.” Luka turns and grabs his guitar, hoping that his blush has faded by now. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I don’t want to leave you hanging.” XY gestures for Luka to lead the way, then follows close behind as Luka descends the stairs.

_Leave him hanging?_ Of course. Even _XY_ thinks that Luka wants to do this. Can’t everyone see that Luka is doing this out of the goodness of his heart, and to make up for his past mistakes? He doesn’t have a crush on XY.

It’s a simple misunderstanding: XY is objectively good-looking, and Luka has eyes. But that doesn’t mean Luka is _attracted_ to him. In fact, if he hadn’t blurted out that XY is _kind of_ hot, Marinette never would have gotten the wrong idea.

“Want something to drink?” Luka asks, as he props his guitar against the kitchen counter.

“Sure. Soda or something. Whatever.” 

As Luka turns to retrieve two cans from the fridge, he’s annoyed to see that XY still hasn’t taken his sunglasses off. Does he have to be such a stereotypical, pretentious jerk? The hair and clothes are an improvement, but the sunglasses detract from the down-to-earth look.

When Luka turns around with the soda cans, though, he’s surprised to see that XY isn’t wearing sunglasses—he’s wearing a normal pair of eyeglasses.

“Are those glasses?” Luka stupidly asks.

XY raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, transition lenses. What about them? I didn’t think you were the judgmental type.” He rolls his eyes. “Never mind, what am I saying? You totally judge me all the time.”

“I’m not judging,” Luka says, as he mentally holds up a scorecard that says, _9.0, extremely hot!_ Which…technically counts as judging, but not the kind that XY is worried about. “Glasses just don’t really fit with your image.”

_Please keep the glasses,_ he silently adds. _The glasses are really cute._

XY frowns and accepts the soda can from Luka, then hops onto one of the kitchen stools. Luka happily remains on the other side of the kitchen counter, glad to have a physical barrier between him and suddenly-hot XY.

“Weren’t you saying that my image was too obnoxious last time?” XY asks, popping the tab of the can.

Silently, Luka is impressed that XY knows how to open a can of soda. “I didn’t mean you needed to change it.”

“Whatever,” XY says, shrugging. “We go with the other image because it sells. And I look hot that way, obviously. But I’m also lazy, and it’s way easier not to deal with hair products and contacts.” He waves a hand. “Try to ignore the fact that I’m slightly less pretty today. I ditched my security guards, so I decided to go undercover.”

If someone had told Luka to envision XY Roth going _undercover,_ he would have pictured XY with a cardboard box on his head, sneaking around with his giant XY necklace on display. He wouldn’t have expected XY to walk out the door looking like a normal person and then trick Luka into calling him hot.

Correction: _kind of_ hot.

“You ditched your security guards?” Luka asks. He lifts the tab of his own can. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“You’re supposed to be smart, and you didn’t even recognize me.” XY takes a sip. “No one even looked twice. It’s because I look hideous in glasses, and no one can _imagine_ XY being hideous.”

“I don’t think the glasses look hideous,” Luka says. “But your eyes do look different.”

Up close, there’s no mistaking it: XY’s eyes are greyer, less of a brilliant blue than usual. Luka thought that maybe the sunlight was playing tricks on him earlier, but now, it’s easy to see that XY’s eyes lack their signature color.

Also, now that Luka is no longer distracted by embarrassment, he can see darker hair at XY’s roots, almost brown or reddish. It’s still got a gold tint to it, but it’s definitely darker than XY’s signature yellow locks.

“Colored contacts,” XY says. “People dig blond hair and blue eyes, so, you know. Got to give the people what they want.”

“Well,” Luka says, “it’s possible some people want glasses and dirty blond hair. That said, I think you should wear whatever _you_ want.”

XY scoffs. “See, you know nothing about how the business works! That’s why you need me to teach you. Like, there’s a reason no one in the biz has weird-colored hair.”

Luka frowns. “Jagged Stone dyes his hair.”

XY grimaces, then takes a gulp from his soda can as if he’s washing away the taste of what Luka just said. “You think I follow _his_ example?” XY says. “No thanks. I don’t want to look lame.”

Pursing his lips, Luka glances away. “Dyed hair isn’t lame.”

“I mean,” XY says, “you almost make it work. But it’s still lame.”

“Thanks,” Luka says drily.

“Anyway, you’re way off-base,” XY says. “If I looked like _this_ as a popstar? No one would buy my albums. I mean, my fans definitely aren’t there because of my music. It’s the aesthetic.”

Luka wonders who taught XY _that_ word. “Sounds like they’re not real fans.”

“I mean, they buy CDs, tickets, and merch,” XY says. “Their money’s real enough.” He sits back on the stool. “But it’s pretty rich of you to call my fans fake. How many fans do _you_ have?”

Kitty Section _actually_ has a couple hundred followers on Instagram, which Luka is pretty proud of—but he has a feeling that number will seem pathetic to XY. “We have a few,” Luka says coolly. “But I’m not interested in having fans.”

“That’s stupid,” XY says. He takes another sip of soda. “Like, you say you care about your music. If you don’t have fans, who listens to your music?”

Luka blinks. Then blinks again. “I…”

“I’m just saying,” XY says, tapping his nails against the can. “Even if you don’t care about fame, you should care about fans.”

“I mean, I _appreciate_ fans,” Luka says. He grips his soda can in both hands, focusing on the feeling of cool metal against his palms. “I just don’t measure my success based on how many I have.”

“Cool. I do.” XY frowns, then reaches up and brushes a stray hair off his forehead. “Ugh. My hair is so much better when it’s out of my face.”

“I like it,” Luka blurts out, because he will be sorely disappointed if XY does not keep this hairstyle. “You seem more approachable. Like you’d actually give me the time of day if I asked.”

XY groans and rolls his eyes. “I don’t _want_ to look approachable. I want to look—”

“Rude?”

“No! Like I’m cool and rich and famous.”

“Well, that’s unoriginal,” Luka says. _“All_ the cool and rich and famous people look like they’re cool and rich and famous. You should try to be more unique.”

XY snorts and takes another drink, but Luka thinks he might spot a smile hiding behind the soda can. “You’re really desperate for me to keep this look, huh?”

Luka blushes. “I don’t care what you do with your hair.”

“Sure,” XY says, drawing out the word. “Well, _I_ don’t care what you want me to do with my hair. So, you know. Last time I wear my hair like this.”

_Please no,_ Luka’s teenage brain thinks. _I will cry._

Honestly, he’s mad at himself. He can’t believe that he finds XY attractive. Of course, XY’s personality is still repulsive, but he actually has a nice face. The glasses frame his cheeks and nose nicely, and his eyes are even prettier when they’re not that artificial blue. He’s got a nice jawline, and his lips have a nice curve to them, when they’re not scowling or pouting.

Worst of all, Luka’s fingers are itching to reach out and feel the stray strands of hair hanging around XY’s temples and cheeks. Before, XY’s absurd hair seemed untouchable—probably a mix of sticky and straw-like, from all the product he puts in it. Now, despite some of the damage XY’s routine has wrought on his hair, it still looks soft enough that Luka wouldn’t hate running his fingers through it.

This might be the first time that Luka has _almost_ wanted to be straight. At least if he was straight, he wouldn’t be sitting here thinking, _Hey, that guy I can’t stand is actually pretty hot!_

Maybe that’s what this is. Luka is annoyed by XY, and that’s translating into some sort of strange physical attraction. His brain is confusing the urge to punch XY with the urge to kiss him—nothing more, nothing less.

“Uh, hello?” XY says. “Are you ignoring me?”

“No,” Luka says slowly. “I was…thinking.”

“About me?”

“No,” Luka says.

“My hair?”

“No!”

“Is that all you’re going to say?”

“N—of course not,” Luka says. “I was just mentally running over what we did last time. Are you ready to get started?”

XY snorts, but a few minutes later, he and Luka move to the couch and get back to work. Or, well—almost get back to work. XY keeps asking Luka stupid irrelevant questions like _what’s your sister like?_ and _how long have you lived on a boat?_ Luka doesn’t appreciate the prying, and he suspects that XY is just trying to procrastinate doing actual work.

At one point, after Luka has spent forty-five minutes prying three notes and two synth effects out of XY, he finally snaps, “Are you here to write music, or not?”

“I mean, yeah,” XY says, frowning at his laptop screen. He’d insisted on taking the laptop back a few minutes ago, because apparently Luka _clicks too slow._ “Why else would I be here?”

“It seems like you’re just here to pry into my personal life.”

“Pry?” XY asks. “How am I prying? I just asked you about your family and your school. Not like I asked about your dad or something.”

Luka pulls his guitar closer against his chest. “And I guess that’s your way of asking about him?”

“No. Unlike you and your weird friend, I say what I mean. I don’t wink-wink-nudge-nudge everything.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is _imply.”_

“I don’t care if you know fancy words. It’s whatever.” XY clicks around—no faster than Luka had been clicking, for the record—then sits back and taps the spacebar. “Okay, how about this?”

Luka rolls his eyes as a fast drumbeat fills the air. It’s not bad, per say, but every single time XY has asked Luka for his opinion, he’s invariably told Luka that he’s wrong and that he just doesn’t _understand the genre._

The genre! The genre that XY didn’t even know about, until Luka played him the Bee Gees. (An action which he know regrets.)

So, Luka is reluctant to offer his feedback yet again. “Sure. Sounds great,” he says, fingers silently finding chords on his guitar.

“Are you sure?” XY says. “I don’t want this song to suck.”

Luka sighs. “Why do you need my help? Just do whatever sells.”

“I don’t know what sells,” XY says, pausing the track. “I’m not a disco dude.”

“Neither am I,” Luka says, scowling at his fretboard. He’s a rocker boy, and this disco song is tarnishing his image. “The track is fine. If you want, you could try something that emphasizes the offbeat, since that’s more in-line with the genre.”

“What does that even mean?” XY grumbles. “Offbeat? Can you just use actual music terms?”

Luka casts him a withering look. “That _is_ a music term.”

“Well, not in the actual business. So…?”

Did Luka actually find XY attractive earlier? Unforgiveable. He’s clearly lost his mind. “If you count to four in time with the music, emphasize the beat between the numbers.”

“I’m not here for a math lesson,” XY says. “Can you try actually making sense?”

“Just give me the laptop.”

“I can do it myself!”

“Clearly not, if you can’t count to four.”

XY scoffs. “Quit calling me dumb every time I don’t agree with you. It’s immature.”

“I wasn’t calling you dumb,” Luka says.

“You _implied_ it. And I already told you, I don’t like trying to read your mind. That means I have to pay attention to you, and I don’t care enough to do that.” XY shuts his laptop and folds his arms across his chest. “So, how about this? Next time you want to call me dumb or say you don’t like me, just do it. Unless you’re too much of a coward to say how you really feel.”

“I told you before, I don’t dislike you,” Luka says. “And I don’t think you’re dumb.”

True, XY doesn’t seem to know much about music—but that doesn’t mean that he’s stupid. He certainly seems to pick up on Luka’s sarcasm, at any rate.

As for Luka’s _feelings_ toward XY…although he’s irritating and rude, he actually hasn’t done anything to Luka since the Silencer incident. Maybe—just _maybe_ —Luka has been a bit too aggressive.

“You sure act like it,” XY says. “It’s fine. You and my dad would get along.”

“No, we wouldn’t,” Luka says, but his stomach drops at XY’s words. Have Luka’s comments really made XY feel the same way that Bob Roth’s parenting does? Luka never meant to make XY feel that way. “I…I’m really sorry, XY.”

XY glances away. “That sounds dumb.”

“What?”

“You calling me XY,” he says. “You never call me that. It sounds dumb when you say it.”

“You always tell me not to call you Xavier-Yves.”

“Yeah, well.” XY shrugs. “I changed my mind. But only because you sound stupid saying it. I still don’t like being called my first name.”

“You know,” Luka says slowly. “It goes both ways. You could say what you mean, too.”

XY glances at Luka, one fine eyebrow arched. “What, you think I secretly have mushy thoughts or something?”

“Well,” Luka says, smiling slightly, “I didn’t, until you said that.”

“I don’t,” XY says. “I mean what I say. I’m not annoying like you are.”

XY frowns at the far wall and makes no move to reopen the laptop. Luka can see the tension in his posture, like he’s on the verge of saying something—so rather than speak, Luka just plays a few quiet chords on his guitar.

“It’s just,” XY finally says, “why are you always saying mean stuff, if you don’t dislike me? I’ve seen you talk to your friends, and you don’t insult _them._ Plus, you actually smile when they’re around. I don’t get why you’d invite me here if you’re just going to be miserable all the time. It’s not a fun vibe.”

_That’s because I didn’t invite you to hang out,_ Luka thinks. _I invited you here to work on a song._

But, well, doesn’t that technically count as hanging out? Belatedly, it occurs to Luka that maybe XY doesn’t have that many opportunities to spend time with people his age. And if XY is coming to the Liberty as an escape—as so many people do—then it makes sense that he wouldn’t want to spend hours with someone who acts like they hate him.

Why _does_ Luka act like that, if he doesn’t feel strongly one way or the other? He’d made peace with his anger at XY the day that bowling akuma attacked the hotel; these days, there’s no reason for any animosity between them. And yet, Luka can’t resist the urge to bicker, to push, to fire back at the slightest offense.

Luka always tries to be honest about his emotions. Music from the heart can’t lie, and he tries to follow that example. Somehow, though…somehow he’s managed to convince XY that he hates him.

“I don’t mean the insults,” Luka says. “Actually, I…I’m not sure why I act this way. Usually I’m quiet and try not to say anything hurtful to people. I save mean thoughts for the bathroom mirror, you know?”

“You insult your bathroom mirror?”

Luka’s cheeks heat. Opening up to XY is probably a bad idea, since really, it just means opening himself up to attack. “No, I mean…I keep the insults to myself. I don’t like hurting people’s feelings.”

XY snorts. “Well, you definitely don’t worry about that with me.” He shakes his head. “Are you sure you’re quiet and nice? Because I’m not seeing it.”

“I get it,” Luka mutters. “You think I’m rude.”

“Nah,” XY says. “I mean, sometimes. But I only say that because it annoys you.”

Luka’s head snaps up from his guitar. “Wait, what? So you are trying to annoy me!”

“Well, yeah,” XY says, forehead creased. “Because you’re always trying to annoy me? I figured it was, like, our thing.”

“We don’t have a thing,” Luka says. His eyes widen the moment he says the words—because they come out too fast, too loud, and _far_ too defensively.

Wait, do they have a thing?

No. A _thing_ is ongoing, and this arrangement between Luka and XY will only last as long as it takes to complete the song. Then they’ll go their separate ways, and Luka can tell his grandchildren how he once helped a famous popstar write a song. That’s all this is.

“Oh, man,” XY says, “that sounded defensive.”

“No, it didn’t,” Luka says, sounding very defensive. “Look, I don’t annoy people or insult them. In fact, I usually drive myself crazy trying to keep mean thoughts to myself. As long as I can play them on my guitar later, I’m usually okay.”

“Ah ha!” XY says, pointing a finger at Luka. “You’re using me.”

“I’m _what?”_

“Everyone wants to be mean _sometimes,”_ XY says. “I mean, personally, I never hold myself back, except when I’m with you.”

Luka stares at him. “Wait, this is you holding yourself back?”

“Yeah? What, can’t you tell I’m being nice?”

“I don’t know how I missed it.”

“See? You don’t feel like you can be mean to your friends, so you’re mean to me instead.” XY leans back against the couch, eyebrows raised. “How’s _that_ for stupid?”

Luka can only keep staring at XY, barely holding back a retort that sits on the tip of his tongue. Because somehow, bizarrely, _unbelievably_ …he thinks XY may be right.

It’s true, after all. Luka doesn’t feel comfortable being mean to his friends. And if he’s being honest, he almost _enjoys_ being mean to XY. Not because Luka likes hurting people’s feelings—in fact, he feels bad about that part—but because it’s nice to finally say something rude and have someone fire back at him.

All of Luka’s friends treat him like the adult in the room. That’s fine, of course; he created that reputation for himself, and most of the time, he’s most comfortable in that role. As a result, though, he’s expected to be the kind and mature one—and while he’s allowed to be a flirt, or to indulge in the _occasional_ bit of banter, none of his friends give him the chance for a sharp back-and-forth.

With XY, though, Luka doesn’t feel the need to hold back. Maybe that’s why it was so easy for him to take things too far.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I took it too far. I realized I liked…bantering, I guess, but it must have looked a lot like I was insulting you.”

XY squints at him for a moment, then makes a grunting noise. “Yeah, you’re more fun when you’re joking. I don’t like when you get all serious and sincere.”

Luka suspects there are more issues underlying _that_ particular preference, but he decides not to push it. “Sorry. I’ll make sure my next apology is more insulting.”

“Yeah,” XY says, snapping his fingers. “Make it spicier.”

Luka rolls his eyes. “Thanks for the feedback.”

“You know,” XY says, “as long as you’re joking, I don’t mind if you, like, unleash your mean side. You can totally use me for that. I can take it. I’m pretty tough from being in the industry for so long.”

Of course, Luka suspects that XY is not tough at all—and that, in fact, his ego is fragile and plagued by insecurity—but that’s not really the part that Luka is hung up on. No, it’s the part about Luka _using_ XY to unleash his mean side.

How can XY suggest something so bizarre? If Luka was going to use XY for letting out his frustrations, he’d do it in a way that involves less talking and fewer clothes.

Luka’s entire face heats, and he glances down at his guitar.

“Are you _blushing?”_ XY says. The incredulity in his voice makes Luka wince. “Wait, what was it? The part about you being mean to me?” He snorts. “Don’t tell me—you’ve got that kink. You know, the one where you get off on being mean to people?”

“That’s not what I was thinking about,” Luka says.

“Yeah, sure. Well, _something_ made you blush.”

“I was—no, I was—gah.” Luka’s guitar suddenly seems inadequate for hiding behind. Face still hot, he sets the guitar aside, grabs a pillow, and presses his face into it. “Can we go back to the disco song?” 

Unfortunately, they make little progress after that. XY keeps teasing Luka for blushing, and Luka refuses to remove the pillow from his face for more than five seconds at a time. After about ten minutes, Luka finally faces the music: he’s in no condition to get any work done.

“Sorry,” Luka says, fingers digging into the soft fabric of the pillow. “Could you come back another time?”

“Hm? Yeah, sure,” XY says. He immediately closes the laptop lid, as if he’s been waiting for a cue. “I’ve got other stuff to do, anyway.”

“More crocodiles to antagonize?”

XY squints at him. “Does anyone else in Paris even have a crocodile, besides that weirdo?”

“Probably not,” Luka says. “Although, if anyone else did try to get one…my mom is probably the most likely candidate.”

“If your mom gets a crocodile, I’m out. Those things are freaky. Too many teeth.” XY packs up his laptop and slings his messenger bag over his shoulder. “I’ll come back, like, next week or something? Try to pull yourself together by then.”

Luka frowns and fixes his eyes on a poster with fanged red-eyed rabbits, which his mother obtained in the early 2000s at a concert for an obscure band called Carrot Massacre. He kind of feels like a shredded carrot right now. “I’m fine. I’m just…an introvert, so I need to recharge.”

It’s true, but it feels like a lie. Luka definitely could have spent another hour or two with XY before he started to feel drained.

“A what?” XY says. “Isn’t that the thing they stick in people at hospitals?”

“What?” Luka say. “That’s—no, that’s intravenous therapy.”

“Okay.” XY shrugs. “Well, anyway. Hope your introvenereal stuff gets better.”

“It’s—I—no. No, that’s not what that is.” 

“Fine, whatever. Reject my sympathy.” 

Luka sighs. “Thanks for the concern," he says. “I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” XY says. “Now, say what you actually wanted to say.”

“If you’re so rich, can’t you afford a dictionary?”

_“There_ it is.” XY snorts and flips open his bag. “I almost forgot. Since you’re so awkward—”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, awkward.”

“I’m not awkward,” Luka says, glaring at him. “I’m just uncomfortable around people, sometimes.”

“Right, you’re awkward around people. Though, your flirting’s not too bad, all things considered. Anyway—”

“Flirting?” Luka echoes. “When have you seen me flirt?” He’s pretty sure XY hasn’t been present for any of the times Luka has flirted with Adrien or Marinette. Which is good, because XY probably would have interrupted and tried to make Luka look stupid.

“Like, every time you talk to me?” XY says. “That’s what the insults are, right? You know, like a little kid pulling on his crush’s hair.”

“That’s not healthy behavior.”

“Okay, then, you might need some intravenous therapy, because that’s totally what you’re doing.” XY rolls his eyes and reaches into his bag. “Anyway, you know how we were talking about, like, how people look? You look like an awkward guy. Super low confidence.”

“I have plenty of confidence.”

“Obviously, since you told off me and my dad. But like, your baggy hoodie screams _low self-esteem._ So, to improve your image…” He removes his hand from the bag, something shiny draped over his fingers. “Voilà.”

Luka stares at the object. It’s clearly one of XY’s tacky necklaces: a bedazzled, chunky dollar sign, hanging on a golden chain. “Uh.”

“Here you go.” XY tosses it toward the couch, and somehow, Luka’s reflexes allow him to catch it. The weighty metal stings a bit as it hits his palms. “Wear that and you’ll look, like, ten times cooler.”

Squinting, Luka holds up the chain and watches the dollar sign swing back and forth. All his brain manages to come up with is: “But we use euros?”

“It’ll make you seem less awkward, promise.” XY shrugs. “But, whatever. I know you’ve got a big ego, so you probably won’t accept my help.”

Luka? A big ego? For XY’s sake, Luka seriously hopes that he’s joking. “Great necklace. Thanks. I feel cooler already.”

XY barks out a laugh—just one beat, more of a _heh,_ really—but the sound is pure, authentic, and it makes Luka feel like there’s a tremolo in his stomach. “Sure thing,” XY says. “I knew you’d love it. But like I said, I’ve got important things to do, so…peace out.”

Luka offers a weak wave, then watches as XY struts to the staircase and disappears. (Luka watches XY’s _back_ , of course, and takes no notice of the way that those tight jeans make XY’s ass look really good.)

Now alone, Luka sets the necklace in his palm, letting the chain pool around the dollar sign. He stares at it for at least a full minute, trying to figure out why on earth XY would gift him one of his gaudy necklaces.

Luka’s brain comes up with no answers—or, well, it doesn’t come up with any answers that he _likes._ If XY (incorrectly) thinks that Luka’s teasing is flirting, it’s most likely because XY’s own teasing is intended to be flirting, which means that the necklace is a come-on. But the thought of XY flirting with Luka is so strange, so inconceivable, that Luka’s brain rejects it on the spot.

After staring at the necklace for another minute or two, Luka finally lands on a conclusion he prefers: XY forgot to remove his tacky necklace before going outside, and hastily threw it in his bag so that no one would see through his disguise. (Certainly, if he had been wearing something like _that_ when he showed up, Luka would have figured out who he was sooner—and he wouldn’t have accidentally called XY hot in front of Marinette.)

Then, when XY was talking to Luka, he must have realized that it would mystify and annoy Luka if XY gave him a gift—so that’s exactly what he did, because of course XY loves to antagonize him.

Even as Luka settles on that conclusion, though, he suspects that he’s giving XY far too much credit. He’s really not _that_ crafty…which means Luka’s first suspicion is probably correct.

Xavier-Yves Roth. Flirting with Luka. And he thinks Luka is flirting back.

Groaning, Luka once again buries his face in a pillow and flops back on the couch.


End file.
